The Fan Investigation
by Inspirationally Red
Summary: America's whole life had been governed by the rules. These rules had been made to grind every nation beneath the boot of their governments. So it was funny how completely one nonsensical Japanese webcomic broke them all. Ameripan, FrUk, slight USUK
1. A Caged Eagle

**THE FAN INVESTIGATION**

**CHAPTER ONE**

**A CAGED EAGLE**

_Every age yearns for a more _**beautiful world**_. The deeper the desperation and the depression about the confusing present, the more intense that yearning._

_Johan Huizinga_

* * *

(In every world meeting there was a blinking LCD screen broadcasting a never-ending series of rules. These rules were pure-white branded onto a black background, constantly scrolling like a bizarre series of end credits, so that anybody who happened to glance up instantly received a white-hot reminder of just how taxing it was to be a nation.

There was nothing half-hearted about those rules. Those rules had governed the movements of the Anthropomorphic National Personification (or ANP) of the United States of America for so long, it had become an integral part of his existence, akin to a limb.

There were always rules; rules on what to do every time their economies affected one another – various governments desperately trying to balance out the global market to avoid another Great Depression – and rules on how to treat one another in polite conversation. In the business of bettering international relations, where every casual comment could be misinterpreted as a national secret, where every complaint could be considered a threat, there could be no such thing as friendship, no favouritism, no love and no hate between the ANPs. It had been decided that this was just how the world needed to work.

The total control over the ANPs had been decided at the peace talks following the Second World War. There had, the politicians decided, been too much freedom before; nations had formed their own private friendships with each other, become lovers, rivals, killers and criminals. These relationships had jarred with international politics, to say nothing about the effect it had had on the people they represented. Emotional responses that mimicked those of the people had no place in the ANPs lives.

It was a lonely business, and it had to be tightly controlled.)

They were everywhere. There were copies of The Rules printed on immaculate white paper scattered around the low-lying tables, there was the ever-present screen, there were even lists backed up on some of the ANPs phones. Personalities that had been long cowed by the force of The Rules were far harder to spot, but they were there; South Korea's glasses slipping down his nose as he slumped in his chair, Canada chewing nervously on the end of his pencil. America met his gaze across the table, and Canada ducked his head down.

Nothing strengthened authority so much as silence.

The meeting room was arranged mostly by geography, the handlers finding it easier to keep track of everybody by arranging them by their respective areas: West Europe, East Europe, Scandinavia, Asia, Middle East, the Americas, etcetera. There were approximately eleven nations to each table, interspersed by their respective entourages of translators, handlers, attendants, politicians and stenocaptioners to bring the grand total up to around twenty-five.

Germany was sitting at the West Europe table with his translator – a dour-looking man named Stehler, wearing the immaculate black suit standard to all ANP translators – blue eyes wearily scanning the room until they focused on America's.

"Good morning, America," America's translator whispered in his lazy Californian drawl. Dresden was a spiky-haired multilingual brunette man who had been the ANP of America's translator for a good ten years, his Californian easy-goingness contrasting the stark efficiency of the ANPs and their rules.

Colonel Reed, America's attendant – a white-haired man who had served in the US Navy before being reassigned to the ANPs – dropped his hand onto America's shoulder, rumpled the starched suit shoulder. "America…" it was only a name, but the voice that said it was none the less steely, and America turned away. Relationships between the countries were utterly forbidden, and no two ANPs were allowed to be alone together. In fact, the ANPs weren't even allowed to be alone together as a _group_, instead accompanied by a never-ending stream of translators and attendants 24/7. At world meetings, at functions, at dinners, at elections, they were not allowed to sit next to one another, constantly separated by guards.

They were allowed to speak to one another, but everybody knew it was best not to – in their world, there were too many things that could be casually let slip: national secrets, news of elections, political movements, and countless others. They were forbidden to speak at a level which could not be heard by their attendants, and some topics were outright forbidden. They were not allowed to touch each other, save the occasional handshake, not allowed to give another anything, and phone calls were prohibited.

The life of an Anthropomorphic National Personification was a lonely life.

America switched his attention to the front of the room. England was standing tall and sullen beside the bent-backed body of his attendant, a blonde woman named Hallwright, as she droned on and on about international relations. England was one of the ANPs who had probably had the most difficulties, at least personality-wise; there was his constant arguing with the rest of the UK ANPs. Yesterday, America had seen him come to the meeting wearing a spiked earcuff in open defiance. It hadn't lasted long.

What society giveth, the government taketh away.

Hallwright stepped down from the lectern, and the ANP of England took her place. A quick flash of those acidic eyes around the room, and half the meeting quietened. Rebellious as he was, England _was _the ANP of the former British Empire.

"Thank you, Miss Hallwright," England's voice – the trademark ANP one of countless regional accents meshed into one – sounded cold and clipped as he panned his steely gaze around the room. "We now think that the situation in Egypt…"

America lowered his gaze to the wooden tabletop. To his left, one of his stenocaptioners was busily transcribing the words down onto a miniature notepad, to be read and memorized later. All around him, the attentive façade that had been maintained for over three hours was slipping; the ANP of China hid a yawn behind his hand, to the angry glance of his attendant Dao Lai Xu, and Australia had his head tilted back, staring up at the ceiling with a vacant expression in his green eyes as he toyed with a pencil.

_Nobody, _America thought miserably as England's voice washed over him like a wave, _wants to be here. _

Somewhere, outside the window, a bird began to sing.

**0110111001101111**

America's house was the epitome of style. It was everything a house should be: spacious, white, elegantly furnished, with the designer unlived-in look that only came from not being lived in.

That was because the ANP of America did not live there. Not really. It was simply a place he came back to at the end of each day when he was in Washington D.C. The beds were always made, the fridge was always stocked, the windows always clean – the cleaners and housemaids were paid well, straight from the government, with an additional 5k for their silence, and they were happy. The lounge contained a huge flat-screen television, two black leather sofas, a DVD player, an answerphone, two telephones – the answerphone line, and the private line (a number so far undiscovered by the legions of telemarketers who persisted in trying to sell him double-glazing, which he already had, or life insurance, which he didn't need) – and a black matt sound system so exquisitely engineered America was almost afraid to go near the thing.

There was an unconnected fax machine with all the intelligence of a computer, and a 1943 ENIAC computer with all the intelligence of a retarded goldfish. The computer had come by default with the house; America normally used his Linux laptop, because he felt that such a sleek, slim object was the type of thing people naturally expected him to have. In the end, it would take either an expert in surveillance or a person of Sherlock-Holmes-like capacity for deduction to realize all was not quite as grand as it seemed inside the ANP of America's house.

The first thing that would tip any aspiring spy off would be the number of security guards – they were stationed all around the house with utterly no regard to privacy_, _a black-suited, sunglasses-wearing network of man mountains. But it was more the subtle stuff that America had to be wary of; the phone taps, the multitude of security cameras rotating unobtrusively in their hidden corners, the microphones hidden absolutely _everywhere_, the restrictions placed upon his laptop, the spontaneous security checks, the confiscation of certain belongings his attendants deemed 'inappropriate'.

"All part and parcel of being an ANP," America had once heard Canada mutter at a charity dinner when he thought nobody would hear, and he agreed. But that didn't mean he had to like it.

As always, the cold, plastic superficiality of the room never failed to start a shiver trailing icy fingers up the back of his neck. The ANP of America loosened his tie as he descended into the sofa, releasing a sigh that came out as a puff of hot steam.

He reached for his laptop. He was tired, deathly tired, that was true. But still, duty called, loud enough for him to check his emails, despite already knowing he would receive a barrage of scanned political documents. Another part of being an ANP – an anthropomorphic national personification of the people of the United States – was the _knowledge_. America knew exactly who had sent the emails – Colonel Reed – how many there were, even what mindset Reed had been in when sending them. He knew every security guard that patrolled his flat by name even though they had never been formally introduced, knew that one of the cleaners suffered from a gambling addiction that had led to a divorce with his wife of seven years, America even knew the location of the President without asking anybody (he was attending an official dinner in the White House, enjoying a matured Sauvignon Blanc).

Any normal human would think the influx of information constantly swirling around his head was nothing short of overwhelming, but for the ANP of America, it was normal. It was like having an arm or a leg – he couldn't imagine _not _living with the information, the constant knowledge of each and every one of his people's goings-on.

Yet, when America had first become an ANP, he had hated it. He had done anything to try and make it go away, from visiting doctors to bribing occultists, and had continually suffered from blackouts and headaches. Back then, England had told him, in his empire voice that brooked no argument, that it was all part of being a country and you just had to live with it.

And so America did. It wasn't so bad anymore.

Fingers of light bled through the angled Venetian blinds, dripping purple-blue shadows onto the plain white walls. Outside the sun would be just starting to sink steadily towards the horizon, he knew. It was just something about the quality of the light as it reflected off the TV screen, spinning pale flecks onto the white plaster ceiling.

Trying his hardest to ignore the security guard sitting in the corner – Richard Montague, African-American, husband to Victoria Montague and father of two children, one a six years old girl, the other a four year old boy – America logged in to his laptop and waited impatiently for it to load. Outside the window a cicada whined in the bushes, bringing to life the illusion of a hot, sunny day, as the Windows screen touched his face with an eerie blue glow.

The Google homepage greeted him with a burst of colour and light; keeping his head low and his laptop deliberately tilted away from Richard the security guard, America unobtrusively typed Gmail into the search engine, and waited with bated breath for it to load.

All the emails he received from the government came to him via a private email provider that ran independently from the main email groups Yahoo, Gmail, etcetera. America had set up a Gmail account himself under the name of Alfred F. Jones, his pseudonym when out and about amongst the people, and spent the majority of his spare time praying it wouldn't be discovered. America had lived longer than all his politicians put together; he was fairly confident he was perfectly adept at using a combination of various hacking to erase all records of his Internet history from the prying eyes of various handlers assigned to monitoring the ANPs records.

Tumblr was another guilty pleasure of his, and so far undiscovered as well. America scrolled through the forbidden Gmail account, clicking his tongue impatiently as his eyes darted along the cramped lines of black unread text. Richard Montague was sitting, bored, in the corner, fiddling with the holster of his Glock, and America averted his gaze.

The first unread mail in the list caught his eye, jettisoned to him by somebody named François Bonnefoye, with no subject. Intrigued, America opened it. All of his emails were primarily from Tumblr, and they normally all had subjects. The email read: _This might amuse you_, followed by a link.

America closed his eyes quickly, and mentally sorted through the myriad of information buzzing around at the back of his skull. The quick mental scan of his people revealed nobody by the name of François Bonnefoye who knew Alfred F. Jones' tumblr account, but that didn't mean anything. The ANPs only knew the people they represented; the sender could have been Ukrainian, for all America knew.

He clicked on the link.

What appeared made his brow furrow. A homepage dominated by a bright red logo written in some strange script resembling Japanese characters, followed by a caption reading 'Hetalia'. A quick mental scan of a nearby Japanese-American language club revealed no word that matched 'Hetalia'. What he did find, however, were two other Japanese words, 'hetare' and 'Itaria', which apparently meant 'hopeless Italy'.

So if you combined the two…

America felt his skin prickle with something akin to dread. Racism was a part of life, and nobody knew that better than the ANPs. America had met the two ANPs of Italy – North and South – and respected them both highly, with their charisma and designer suits. They had often awed him; the two ANPs of Italy seemed to make stylishness seem effortless, with the combined forces of their expensive clothes, immaculate tastes when it came to the arts, and suave, lyrical ways of speaking.

America tried to calm himself down. As far as he knew, the public worldwide had no knowledge of the ANPs; their awareness restricted to infrequent sightings of tall, world-weary people standing at the side of their respective Presidents or Prime Ministers at official events. It was a testament to the government's seamless organization that whenever anybody did ask, they were met with either vagueness or political titles so long and complex the asker soon lost interest. A popular theory where the people of the US were concerned was that the ANP of America was nothing more than some sort of high-ranking politician, and for that, he was grateful.

America took a breath and, telling himself that what he was about to see couldn't possibly get any worse, entered the site.

"What the hell?"

Sitting in his green deck chair by the kitchen door, Richard Montague jerked out of his lethargy and half-rose from his chair, hand going automatically to the gun at his hip.

"Stay where you are, Richard Montague!" The ANP's raised hand stopped him in his tracks and, rather like a bewildered bear, he slowly turned around and sank back into his seat again.

"Thank you." America exhaled slowly and returned to the site.

Standing before him in high-definition were the Allied Forces, clearly personified, clearly anthropomorphic. America's blue eyes darted from each person in stunned silence as he tried frantically to process what he was seeing. The 'people' – people being the operative word, as he had no idea what he was really seeing – resembled the real-life ANPs in every possible way, except for certain significant differences.

Firstly, America. Or at least, the person he presumed was meant to be a personification of America. The caricature was crude, to say the least, nothing more than a series of scribbles depicting a short, bespectacled figure in what looked like an aviator's jacket.

The ANP of America didn't wear glasses. In real life he was tall, moderately well-muscled, with tanned skin, cropped blonde hair and blue eyes, and his clothing was normally restricted to whatever variety of suits his handlers thought would be appropriate. Despite the change in clothing and the glasses, the cartoon figure resembled him in every possible way. And, scrolling down the page, he even found his pseudonym.

Alfred F. Jones.

A shiver trailed up his spine. _Shit, this is like Inception_.

America took a breath, trying to calm himself, even though his thoughts were whirling like autumn leaves in a tornado. Who could have found his pseudonym? He didn't have that many followers on Tumblr! Could maybe the author of whatever he was seeing had decided to use his name? But if so, he or she would have contacted him!

Maybe it was a coincidence.

Steeling himself, he read the description beneath.

_America is a cheerful, energetic and somewhat conceited young man who is obsessed with heroes, justice, and freedom. _

Conceited? He wasn't conceited. And, by the way the handlers kept restricting the ANPs, he was a long way from cheerful and energetic. In fact, he couldn't remember a time when he had ever been 'cheerful and energetic'. The 'heroes, justice and freedom'… the memories of the times when he believed in such things made a sick feeling rise to the back of his throat. He shuddered and kept reading, despite the feeling of foreboding rapidly swelling in his chest.

_He has the habit of sticking his nose into everyone's business, which causes him to have difficulty making friends._

He swore under his breath. If that was somehow an implied slur against his government's decisions involving Iraq and Vietnam…

_He loves hamburgers and junk food, to the point of obsession, and can even eat strange and inedible things due to inheriting England's sense of taste (or lack thereof). _

England had a great sense of taste, America thought, picturing the slender, red-blonde man. Granted, his food could be slightly bland at times, but…

_America is also known for not being aware of how "the atmosphere" is when he is around others (which, at one point, he was told to read it), but it has been noted that it is not that he lacks the ability to "assess the situation", he simply chooses not to._

By about the third paragraph in, America had had enough. Afraid of Marmite, ghosts and weighing scales? Able to swing a fully-grown buffalo around by the horns? Friends with an alien named Tony? America had never seen an alien in his life, no matter how hard he had searched the NASA records. Who was the idiot who had dreamed up this garbage?

The other 'nations' only increased his anger.

In real life, the ANP of France had short black hair with a pencil-thin moustache he normally curled at both ends, and embraced English as a 'cool-sounding' language, _not _some type of gold-haired pervert! Granted, France was considered one of the more rebellious ANPs by many of his handlers due to his incessant flirting, despite the fact that all ANPs were infertile and unable to become sexually aroused in any way. This, now that America thought about it, was rather contradictory, as France was supposed to be the 'country of love'.

The ANP of Germany… America gaped at the caricature for several moments before shuddering and moving on. He could find no difference, and the bland, flat similarity between the cartoon and real life made his skin crawl.

The real-life personification of China was black-haired, short and bespectacled, with a type of pushy politeness that had often been misinterpreted as threats. The cartoon China, for all intents and purposes, seemed to be a girl with long brown hair, who carried around a panda and said 'aru' at the end of every sentence for no particular reason whatsoever.

The ANP of England was tall and slender, more girlish than anybody else, with short red-blonde hair, bright green eyes, and all the stereotypical English upper-class politeness, the likes of which America had only ever witnessed elsewhere in Pride and Prejudice and other such works. While England's caricature still had the green eyes, there the similarities ended – his hair was yellow and he was foul-mouthed, for heaven's sake. America had never heard the ANP of England swear in his life; instead of flying into a rage, England had a tendency to become scarily passive-aggressive, one of the tactics that had made him so frightening as an empire.

The list of extremes only seemed to grow after that. America scrolled through the list with a growing sense of disbelief. The sun was fully submerged beneath the horizon now, layering the outside in dense shadows and sending fingers of darkness through the thin curtains. Ricardo had stopped moving on his chair now; head lolling back as he snored faintly. America wondered vaguely if that could be considered a breach of duty.

Finland was a taciturn, scary machoman who'd had to be banned from meetings due to bringing a knife and a bottle of vodka into one of the summit conferences, _not _a shy little boy who loved Christmas and Sweden. Sweden, for God's sake! The last time America had seen them together, it had resulted in Sweden getting smashed over the head by a hockey stick, ending up in hospital with a cracked skull and a black eye. The months of political red tape made him shudder to remember.

Deciding it was high time he figured out what this 'Hetalia' really was, and if it really was as potentially treasonous as it appeared, America went to Wikipedia. Possibly not the best source he could have chosen, but he needed answers fast, and the free encyclopaedia normally delivered.

_Hetalia: Axis Powers is a Japanese webcomic, later adapted as a manga and an anime series. The series' main presentation is as an often over-the-top allegory of political and historic events as well as more general cultural comparisons. _

From what little America had seen of the original comic, it was about historical as a can of beans.

_Characters are personifications of countries, regions such as Hong Kong, and micronations such as the Principality of Sealand. Both positive and negative cultural stereotypes form part of each character's personality, since the series is based on Japanese cultural views of the world._

_Fuck. _America started to panic. Deciding it was best to get an outside opinion, and wondering with some trepidation what he would find, America opened YouTube and typed in 'Hetalia'.

It was… bad. Not that America had really been expecting anything else, from what he had already previously seen, but this time, just the names of the videos were enough to put him off. Prussia's rape laugh, 5 minute challenge? Prussia, as far as he could remember before the dissolution, had been a proud man of enviable accomplishments whom he respected highly, and did not deserve to be degraded in such a way, be he living or dead! An angry growl inadvertently slipped past his lips.

Then he found it.

It started off all right; a black screen with the name of the video and the beginnings of the song 'Cannibal', by Kesha. The black screen quickly faded and gave way to a picture of the England caricature. The cartoon figure was wearing a pirate hat and apparently seemed to be licking a sword.

_That can't be good for your tongue, _America thought, before the next series of pictures flashed up and he nearly leapt out of his chair.

The cartoon England kissing the cartoon America. The cartoon America in bed with the cartoon England. And more, getting progressively dirtier, over and over and over, replaying in a filthy montage again and again.

America slapped the laptop lid shut with a strangled yelp and lurched to his feet. The force and speed of his movement upended the coffee table, sending it crashing onto the floor with a bang that seemed to shake the foundations of the entire house.

Richard Montague didn't stir.

_What was that? _America thought shakily. His gaze went to the laptop on the floor, and he felt bile rise to his throat. _What the _hell_ was_ _that? _

This was serious. Somehow somebody had gotten hold of information about the ANPs – information that had remained secret for millennia – and had distributed it, though misinterpreted and incorrect, to the masses, who were then making… making… America thought about what he had just seen and nearly gagged. Him making out with _England_? England was the _British Empire_! The guy was practically his _father!_ They were both _representatives of countries! _

America felt his head whirling so much it produced a dull throbbing. The room was spinning, forcing him back down onto the couch. Like cartoon England had been straddling cartoon him… America shut his eyes. "Oh God." He whispered hoarsely.

He needed to tell the other ANPs about this. Who knew what other treasonous filth had been produced? Not only that, but if more and more of that stuff got out, and if people starting connecting cartoon America to the man who stood beside the President at official occasions, it could potentially compromise the ANPs security, and send all their lives crashing down.

_America is a cheerful, energetic and somewhat conceited young man who is obsessed with heroes, justice, and freedom…_

But _how?_ All forms of communications between the ANPs were intensely monitored, and anything that didn't directly pertain to politics was almost instantly terminated, normally by means of incinerator. There was no way America would be able to send each of the countries a letter or an email. He didn't even know their email addresses – he didn't even know if any of them even _had _private email accounts.

_Heroes, justice, and freedom… _

No. He was _not _going to allow some twisted little video get to him like that.

Kissing England, biting…

"No!" the word exploded from his mouth in a loud, ragged yelp, but still Ricardo Montague didn't move.

_Why doesn't he wake up? _America thought hysterically. The walls seemed to be spinning now, white and black bleeding into a vast, melting felt dizzy and disoriented, and swayed in time with the walls as he got up. _Why hasn't anyone noticed me yet? _

_An energetic and somewhat conceited young man… _

There was still one option, and that was to go out as Alfred F. Jones and see if he could reach the ANPs that way. There was little chance that he would be able to – the security guards were notorious for not allowing anybody to see their precious charges – but he had to get to them some way, he _had to_.

_Why? _A small voice said in the back of his mind. _It's just a comic. If you ignore it, it would probably go away and fall into obscurity. Nobody really pays attention to these types of things. _

The whole thing hinged onan_ 'if'. If _the comic became popular_, if _more and more people began to grow suspicious_,_ if, if, if…

He was the ANP of the United States of America. There were probably a dozen more pressing political issues that required him to resolve. But what he had seen had scarred him, and pushed him into the path of a more serious potential threat. If people found out about the ANPs…

If that happened, there was no telling what would happen next.

He grabbed his laptop. Heading for his bedroom produced a vague sort of lethargy, as if he was fighting his way through air that had suddenly become molasses, but his feet were moving, and the carpet seemed to be moving along with them, so he kept at it.

His bedroom wasn't exactly a breakthrough in interior design, the attendants only fitting him with the necessities; a bed, a wardrobe, a lamp, a shelf containing various books that had been heavily censored, and an armchair.

But there was something they didn't know.

America couldn't remember when he had gone out and purchased his disguise, only that it fit him remarkably well and seemed to attract no attention. He had been required to move it around from place to place within his room due to the various spot checks, but he was fairly confident that, by using a combination of 'the knowledge' and intuition, he had been able to fool most of the guards.

He peered into the top shelf of his bookcase. After finishing the pills, he had tipped most of the hair dye into a bottle of aspirin tablets his attendants had gotten him to help with headaches. As a rule, America was not allowed to own anything without it being inspected by the attendants first. The ruse had worked; everyone who saw the little bottle instantly assumed the attendants had purchased it for him which, technically, they had, and that it was therefore allowed.

The clothes were a little harder to smuggle in. America wasn't permitted to wear anything but a variety of dark suits; the attendants didn't expect him to go out among the public except on official events, so, naturally, he didn't possess any casual clothes. America had eventually concocted a form of black suit jacket, that wasn't too formal that it would arouse suspicion, but not too informal that it would be instantly taken away. Combine that with shoes and relatively nice jeans, and America's disguise, as far as clothes went, was as good as complete.

It was the hair dye that was the main factor, however. Once, when James Bond was reaching a boom in popularity, England had managed to tell him that disguising yourself was a relatively simple affair; all you needed to do was to possess something that instantly distracted anybody from your image as a whole.

Blue hair normally did the trick.

America grabbed the clothes, hiding the bottle in his hand, and walked casually out into the hallway. His heart was thundering in his ribcage, seeming as loud as a herd of buffalo; he was surprised the guard patrolling the hallway – John Walsh, former juror, unmarried, lived in 22nd Street - did little more than nod politely to him as he passed.

America slipped into the bathroom and shut the door, placing the laptop down near the sink. The bathroom was the blindspot, the only room in the house that didn't have a security camera, out of respect for the ANP of America's privacy. The attendants had compromised this by placing an almost ungodly amount of other cameras in every room.

America's breathing came in tense, nervous gasps and his palms were sweating, making unscrewing the cap of the bottle difficult. As he changed into his other clothes, America kept a careful track of the guards and their patrol circuits in his mind, calculating when would be the best time to make a dash through the house to the door. If he used that potted plant in the front hallway as cover while Fred Peterson made his rounds…

He scrubbed the dye into his hair as the laptop sat on the sink like a vessel of retribution, whispering words into the mirror to practise the southern twang he used when out and about in disguise.

When he touched his hair, his fingers came away blue. It took several minutes for the dye to dry; it would wash out within a few weeks, but America preferred not to think about that.

Disguise in place, America slipped out cautiously, laptop under his arm, heart hammering. Even as he ghosted silently through the corridors, a million worries gathered and swelled to fill his mind. Even if he did make it out of the house, what then? Most ANPs houses were too well-guarded for him to sneak in; it was only detailed memorization of all his guards and their personal lives that made it so easy for him to sneak out. America's mind ticked. If he could find an Internet café, he could probably be able to hack. He had no other meetings scheduled for today; as sometimes unrealistic their expectations could be, even the handlers knew 9 o'clock at night was hardly an hour for the ANP of America to be up and about. America's timetable required him to be up at six o'clock in the morning for the mandatory health check, followed by a dietary-regulated breakfast and another doctor's test, this time of physical abilities.

_So, the way I see it, I have nine hours to let the others know, _America thought grimly.

_Why? _His conscious piped up in the back of his mind. America's shoes made no sound as he made his way down the stairs in tense silence, eyes darting around. _It's just a stupid little comic. _

_It's treason! _America mentally yelled back at it. _Besides, if word gets out and people start getting suspicious, who knows what will happen to us? _

_You'll be free, _his conscious murmured. _Free, for the first time in your life… _

Stereotype dictated security yell "Halt!" or "Freeze!" or "Drop your weapons!" but this one was soundless, hurtling noiselessly up from behind to confront him. The security guard was wearing full Kevlar body armour complete with an earpiece to radio higher authority should the need arise, with a M41-A 10 millimetre automatic sheathed in a shoulder holster. So caught up in his thoughts, America found himself being tackled backwards, breath exploding out of him in a loud gasp. The ground rushed up to meet him, his head cracked back against the floorboards, and the world went black.

**0110111001101111**

* * *

Notes:

Dun dun dunn! *listens to the sounds of people screaming in frustration across the country* Don't worry, don't worry, America's hardly going to get killed. Main characters almost never do. Unless… *grins evilly and starts plotting*

If I was to say this fic is like anything, it would probably be something like a weird mash-up of **Inception**, **Another Brick in The Wall**, **Dark City **and a good old 'the Hetalia characters reactions to fanfiction' fic. With **Hetalia **thrown into the mix, it creates this seriously strange fic that I'm honestly feeling more optimistic about with each passing day, considering the way it started off was completely different from the way I planned :) I guess there's a lesson in this: if things don't start off the way you plan, stick with it. It might surprise you. :P

*hops off inspirational soapbox*

**Trivia Time!:**:D The scene separators are binary code for what word? And also, who originally said "Nothing strengthened authority so much as silence," (paraphrased)?

_- Note:_ Some of you might have noticed England mentioning a 'situation in Egypt'. Around the time I was writing this, I'd just learnt of The Arab Spring, and figured I might as well make a reference to it. 'The Arab Spring' is essentially the media term for a series of protests that occurred throughout the Arab region, 'springing' from one Arab country to the next. These protests mainly occurred because the citizens wanted to overthrow their various governments, because the politicians there were corrupt. The Arab Spring essentially started with a 26 year old fruit vendor named Mohammed Bouazizi setting himself on fire in Tunisia. I won't spoil it for anybody who's interested, but I find it fascinating :P Of course, I'm a bit of a nerd when it comes to such things, so…

*stops to take a deep breath*

Thank you all for reading! :D My backburner's growing by the day, but I will get around to posting the next chapter! Someday…

(gaaah, this author's note is _long. _Sorry guys)

Xxx

**Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated **

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the aforementioned works. **


	2. Dead Man Walking

**THE FAN INVESTIGATION**

**CHAPTER TWO**

**DEAD MAN WALKING**

* * *

A low chuckle slipped from a pair of pale lips, and he couldn't help smile in response.

"You idiot," he giggled, holding tight to the front of his shirt. The sun was setting over the city, flinging long shadows over the blinking grid and disintegrating the horizon into a blitzkrieg of gold sun. "What if we get caught? We'll get caught."

"We won't." his voice was calm.

He tilted his face upwards to the sun, and the light touched his face with gold. "You don't know that. You may think you know everything there is to know in this world, but you really don't." The slurred words were accentuated with a lazy poke to the chest, the nails sharp and pointed.

He gently moved his hand away. "Trust me."

"If everybody went around trusting each other, we wouldn't be in this mess, would we?" A low hiccup and he drained the glass of bloody liquid, almost as if to quash it.

His lack of tact made him smile. "You're cute when you're drunk."

He glared at him, flailing the empty glass around. "Don't you dare patronize me, you…"

"Just relax." He palmed his hair and he quietened instantly, almost like a recalcitrant cat. "We'll figure it out. We always do."

His face twisted in a grin. "Yeah, you and all your… ah!" the involuntary cry was torn from him, but when he looked, he could see no cause of injury. He pushed away. "I understand now! It's too risky! If somebody finds out…"

"We were fine before," he interrupted him, smiling gently. He brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes, feather-light. "We can do it again."

"What if we fail?" he asked eventually. His shoulders curved downwards, hunched. "Our minds…"

"The minds of all of us?" he asked, although he thought he already knew.

His eyes glaring was the last thing he saw before everything faded to black and his voice echoed.

"Yeah. All of us."

**0110111001101111**

He woke up in a jail cell, saw the blackness, and his senses exploded.

There was no warning. His body launched into overdrive in the blink of an eye, muscles tensing, eyes widening, nostrils flaring in silent panic. The chill crept into his bones, stuffing itself between his lips and down his throat and driving an icy spike through his heart. His fingernails scratched against concrete as he scrabbled, clawing through the World War POW flashbacks that flitted through his head like bats, confused, tangled flashes of cell bars, machine gun fire, the world rending apart with a scream of tortured black earth, and the sky splitting… His scream rebounded off the blackness, returning to him in a rush of sensation that left him shaking, forcing him backwards until his back slammed up against the concrete wall and he couldn't retreat anymore.

red, machine gun fire, rattling, exploding in his head, the burst from artillery shells marking a shallow grave for dead soldiers…

water, torture, the beads of moisture dripping tantalizingly down his forehead and tempting his parched throat, the dripping of the water sending echoes booming through his head, and he screamed, no more, no more…

hewn down by machine gun fire, their red blood freezing before he hit the ground, _lifeless eyes staring up at the winter-grey sky as the hammer and sickle gleamed the last thing he would see until _

He woke, sheltered, covered by hospital sheets, while the war raged…

the war that _could have been, and never_ was…

propaganda, riots, guns and knives, people rioting in the streets while above them the stars and stripes waved on a backdrop of effortless blue, blue like the people's tears as they cried for a lost country, a country of injustice, because really, what did it all mean, and he was so lost…

"_You have to stop this, America." England's voice was cold, uncompromising, the cut of a double-edged sword as it sliced into veins. _

"_Stop? Stop? How can I stop?" he had laughed, crazily, into the face of the man he had once called father, and whirled away…_

He was watching himself type away at a battered laptop, brow furrowed in concentration, and he reached through the screen as the walls slid and collided crazily with each other, like opposing mirrors in a demented funhouse…

Anti-Vietnam protests, anti-Iraq protests, anti-everything protests it seemed at times, the American people were never happy, never content, their memories and goings-on a constant, never-ending tug at the back of his mind, threatening to _snare his fragile mind with dark claws and drag it down into the never-ending blackness… _

America sat hunched in the darkness for a long time until he regained control of himself. Decades ago, seeing the combined traumatic memories and the knowledge exact their toll upon the ANPs, the handlers had introduced a system of meditation to help their beloved charges cope. Although he didn't like to admit the overbearing handlers had done anything good for him, America couldn't help feeling grudgingly thankful they had at least taught and allowed him that much.

His breath dragged at the frigid air as he forced it in, holding the precious oxygen clenched in his chest before releasing it with a rattle.

_One, two, three, four… _He counted to ten slowly, timing each breath, and felt his body slowly start to relax. The spasms gripping his muscles slowly weakened and eventually eased altogether. By concentrating on his breathing, America was able to overcome and eventually force the intrusive memories out of his mind, the tangle of carnage and ear-splitting rattling of machine guns fading into oblivion.

_Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen… _

He was still breathing when the light flared on.

It was a white light, a bright halogen glare – America flung up his arm, shielding his eyes with his sleeve as he stared into the circle of light. Somebody was standing behind that light, that discus of pure white, and he squinted.

"Do you know why you're here?" Colonel Reed asked, and his voice was as cold as Soviet frost.

America stared at him. His pulse was drowning his ears as his meditative breathing trailed into nothing, his chest rising and falling like bellows as the air jumped sadistically up and down the inside of his throat. He opened his mouth, trying to talk, but his breath yanked the words back down in a fit of coughing.

It was at times like these the knowledge became handy; America knew without asking what had transpired just before he had been jailed. The government kept a building in reserve to detain anybody who might pose a threat to the ANPs – like the ANPs, the exact location of the building was veiled in secrecy, so much so that even America wasn't entirely sure where it was. He thought he knew, but he could always be wrong.

All he knew was that he was here now.

Inwardly, he was aware the situation could be considered ironic; the lack of any warmth in Colonel Reed's eyes confirmed what he already knew.

The Colonel didn't recognize him.

"No." he croaked out at last. The tide of memories was ebbing now, and his breathing was gradually returning to normal. The southern lilt helped him to regain control, and remember who he was, exactly what he was doing… He combed his hand through his hair, and was relieved by the intake of loose blue strands clinging to his nails. His disguise was still in place.

His laptop! His eyes darted around the cell in a frenzy of sudden urgency before realization hit him and he slumped where he sat with a hollow laugh. Of course. The guard had seen him, and now he was locked up because everybody thought he was an intruder, instead of the ANP he really was.

Colonel Reed remained unperturbed by the sudden laughter; his eyes were as dark and as hollow as America had always known him. "You were caught breaking into the national dignitary's house." The retired army officer leant forward, considerable bulk almost dwarfing him in its immense shadow.

America stayed silent. He was a 'national dignitary' now? Nice. "So what? I don't remember." he shot back insolently, feeling secretly proud of his act. Inwardly, his heart was hammering. What was he _doing_? He was in jail, that was obvious, and it was clear there was no way he could contact the rest of the ANPs now. For now, he would have to concentrate on getting out.

He was an ANP and if there was one thing America liked about being an ANP, it was the invulnerability. It was impossible to cause lasting damage to an Anthropomorphic National Personification, impossible to shoot, stab, crush, burn, electrocute, poison, beat or otherwise kill an ANP in any way. They could still obtain wounds – America himself had a nasty bayonet scar from the Revolutionary War – but all wounds they acquired generally healed much quicker than any normal human being.

Somehow it seemed only a small comfort that if they sentenced him to the electric chair, he would not burn. He wasn't a fool – the guard had mistaken him for an intruder breaking into the house of a 'national dignitary'. Nobody in the world was permitted to know anything about the ANPs – therefore, he had to die.

But ANPs couldn't die. America thought of himself breaking out of a coffin sealed under miles of earth, and shuddered. Granted, it was almost sanitary compared to some of the things he had witnessed during various wartimes, but still…

Colonel Reed's eyes darkened in rage, and America's focus snapped back to him. "You were caught breaking into the national dignitary's house and attempting to escape with a laptop containing terabytes of political information, and you claim you don't remember anything?"

America's thoughts whirled, mind abruptly diverted back onto the situation at hand. He remembered now; the guard had tackled him backwards and he had bumped his head. Head injuries, while not serious to ANPs, could trigger memory loss in some humans. He could say he had amnesia…

"Please." It rankled him – he hated to beg – but the Colonel was looking at him with uncompromising eyes that reminded him of England, so he continued, voice cracking. "Please, I don't remember anything… where am I?"

Colonel Reed's eyes narrowed. "You don't remember anything?"

America shook his head. The blue strands whirled around his face. "No. No, I don't." _Please think I have amnesia, if I have amnesia, then I can't be considered a threat, right? _

The Colonel looked at him, and time seemed to slow to a crawl. America only registered the shriek of the door swinging shut on rusted hinges several minutes after it had happened; the lag in timing made him blink, disoriented.

Well. To quote England, that _had _been odd.

America sat in silence for a few moments, the chilled concrete wall supporting the curve of his back, staring bewildered into the darkness. His head was throbbing; sadly, that did nothing to deter his thoughts from swirling around his head like a sadistic typhoon. He itched to know what was going on – what was going to happen to him?

There was a technique for discovering that. While America's intensive mental drills and meditation had mostly prevented it, there were times when the ANPs could lull themselves into so deep a trance they could pick out an individual person's mind amongst the collection of knowledge. The outcomes of the technique were unpredictable – America had heard countless horror stories about various nations who had had to undergo intensive psychological examinations afterwards – but…

He needed to know. His life was in danger. Plus, the reports of mental issues only came from the nations who had existed during the Middle Ages, right? They hadn't known about meditation back then.

Feeling slightly better at his analysis, America took a breath.

_One, two…_

America's lips trembled as he mouthed the words, closing his eyes to successfully shutter the view of the cold concrete cell. The throbbing of his pulse mingled with the pounding in his head, creating a rhythm that boomed through his skull.

_Three, four… _

America cautiously focused on the knowledge. The brief spasm that overtook him as his mind was submerged almost caused his eyes to flicker open; it was rather like suddenly jumping into an icy cold pool in the winter.

For a second, the knowledge incapacitated him. His carefully timed beats disintegrated into a rush of startled breath, and his hands scrabbled for the floor again.

_RidgewellJohnBarry26yearsoldfirsttimejurorcleanerj anitormaintenancemanlawyerbicycleppregnancyissuesa ffairsmortgagerentcatastrophemobilephonecompanybig eaterrunracescrosscountryworklawwork…_

America sucked in a huge breath. The intake of air helped steady him, force him back to his careful counting.

_One…_

_janitormaintenancemanlawyer_

_Two…_

_bicycleppregnancyissuesaffairs_

_Three…_

_mortgagerentcatastrophemobile_

_Four…_

_Phone company, big eater…_

_Five…_

In the miasma of murmuring minds, he found Colonel Reed, focused only on him, and as he did, all the rest of the people faded to white noise in the back of his head.

He was talking to somebody.

"We can't kill him." Colonel Reed was saying, and America jumped. His attendant's voice sounded unusually clear, as though he was standing right next to him. Yet his voice also sounded distant, as if America was hearing him shouting from the opposite end of a tunnel filled with a multitude of people having a whispered conversation. As he listened in wonder to these sounds, America suddenly realized that, for the duration of his mental foray, he was completely and utterly deaf to the outside world.

_We'll see how long that lasts, _he thought grimly, and listened again.

Colonel Reed was talking again. "This man managed to get inside the house of an ANP, steal his laptop and was halfway outside before anybody detected him. For him to pull off such a thing obviously means he had outside help."

"You think there might be others involved?" somebody asked, and America realized with a jolt it was the President of the United States. The President's official dinner at the White House, obviously, had ended, and America felt a trickle of dread creep through his gut as he listened.

Colonel Reed snorted dismissively. "Obviously. But the bastard claims he doesn't remember anything."

"He could have amnesia," the President said, and America was relieved to hear his voice was mild.

"Even if he does, others could come after him. There isn't just ANP information on there – the political information would fetch a lot on the black-market."

"You've confiscated the laptop, haven't you?"

Colonel Reed's voice was blunt. "Of course. We…" the officer seemed to hesitate before going on, "We have reports from the technicians that ANP America was apparently looking at Gmail and YouTube beforehand."

The President paused. "Access to websites outside government regulation is strictly prohibited, Reed." He said, and there was a definite coldness to his voice.

In the cell, America cringed.

Colonel Reed almost bowed. "Yes sir. Obviously, his account will have to be terminated."

America thought about Tumblr, Gmail and his legions of followers. Then he thought about wars and everything he had witnessed as an ANP, and decided with certainty that having half your right leg blown off by shrapnel was definitely a cause for grieving. Loosing access to a petty Internet site, on the other hand, was not.

It still irked him.

"We've run a full security scan on the house," Colonel Reed was saying. If he listened hard enough, America could almost hear the click of his polished shoes, and could imagine him pacing. "No sign of a break-in has been found. So, how did he _do _it?" Colonel Reed's voice was frustrated.

"Perhaps he had inside help."

Colonel Reed gritted his teeth. "With all due respect, sir, I doubt the ANP of America would have the intelligence to devise something so complicated."

America's mouth fell open, and rage pulsed through him so hard his hands visibly shook. How _dare _he, that bastard! He was old before Colonel Reed had fucking been _born,_ how dare he have the right to say…

"Nevertheless, whoever the criminal is, he still remains a threat to ANP America's security." The President was saying, and America strained to hear. The whole conversation seemed very surreal – ordinarily, America felt sure he would have been laughing at the sheer bizarreness of it all.

"ANP America doesn't know." Colonel Reed sounded almost nervous. "Will we have to…"

"Obviously, the criminal is a threat to ANP America's security," the President sounded cold. "Where is the ANP now?"

A bizarre combination of fear and the urge to laugh hysterically pulsed through America, because everything was just so _bizarre. _What he heard next nearly made him sever the mental connection in shock.

"He's in his room, reading over the UN meeting transcript."

_What? _America thought shakily. _How? That's impossible! _ The shock of the news proved too much for his already throbbing head to handle; the connection to Reed faded like morning mist, leaving him staring into the blackness, heart pounding.

"How?" he whispered into the darkness of the cell. "How?"

America couldn't remember when he had dozed off, just as he had no way of telling what time it was. Days, nights, maybe even years could have blurred past as he lay there, staring up at the mould that crusted the damp ceiling and wondering if it was really too much to ask for to hire a decent janitor, while thoughts whirled through his head like leaves in an autumn tempest.

He was just vaguely resurfacing into consciousness when a bright light flared on overhead, effectively catapulting him into wakefulness.

"Do you know who I am?" Canada asked softly.

America stared at him, heart in his throat. He had never before appreciated just how scary the blonde Canadian ANP could be; Canada was staring at him with unreadable blue eyes, and the lack of any emotion made him feel slightly nervous. What was he doing here? Didn't he have his own government to attend to?

Canada's fingers closed over his wrist, and America stiffened. It was the first contact he'd had with another ANP that wasn't a handshake, and the connection sent a jolt through him. "Come on. We don't have much time."

The cell door was open; Canada dragged him through it. The sound of their footsteps echoed off the cold stone walls. "Where are you taking me?" America asked, stumbling slightly.

Canada's voice was as flat as a pane of glass. "Your execution."

"No… wait…" America's shoe caught on the concrete floor and he tripped, stumbling down the hallway. His hands were shaking again, this time in desperation. True, he couldn't die; he would probably just find his way out of the grave, but… "A… ANP Canada, it's me! America!"

Canada stopped. Then, "No, you aren't." His voice was cold. "You were caught, and sustained a head injury. You have amnesia. You're just confused."

"No! No, it's me!"

He had to get out. He had to find out if what Colonel Reed had said about him – another America, an imposter – who was apparently masquerading around in his house, and decide what to do if there really was someone there. America almost groaned. What the hell would happen now? Even if he did return, what would his attendants do? What would happen to him? He obviously couldn't go back to his house – he was in the middle of a fucking jail complex, for Christ's sake, and even if he did overpower the guards, there was still Canada to deal with. Why was he here, anyway?

America suddenly wondered exactly how he would die. Capital punishment had been outlawed long ago, but he knew it didn't matter – all threats to the ANPs had to be eradicated, no matter the cost, but had been proven many times before that conventional methods of killing just didn't work on an ANP. Once, America had gotten shot in the Vietnam War. For several minutes, he had blacked out – the ANP's body's way of protecting itself. When he awoke, the bullet had just rattled around in his chest before somebody had had the common sense to dig it out. The same for poison; some sort of chemical in the ANP's bodies almost instantly absorbed and nullified all toxic substances. So, if he was executed by lethal injection, he would have to play dead.

"How will I die?" He asked.

Canada barely glanced at him. "Injection."

_Small comfort, _America thought, as his footsteps trailed away into nothingness.

**0110111001101111**

The clatter of laptop keys was echo-like in the freezing cold room, the frenzied movement of nimble fingers sending writhing dark shadows smudging up the pale walls. In amidst the layers of charcoal and bruise-purple shades, the ANP of Japan read the lines of cramped black kanji, eyes narrowed.

"Aratamemashite nihon desu, shumi wa kuuki wo yonde hatsugen wo tsutsushimu koto desu."

Country From Where The Sun Rises, Zipangu? What was this?

A sudden crackle of noise from the other laptop beside him made his eyes dart towards it. On the screen, a digital wave metre pulsed unpleasantly, bringing with it the sound of a Canadian accented voice, and Japan's dark eyes narrowed in thought.

**0110111001101111**

It was exactly 7:35pm on a Monday afternoon when America broke out of the grave.

For a second he laid there on his back, gasping, greedily sucking in huge lungfuls of oxygen, the rocky soil lying in jagged clumps around him. As the moon rose, the translucent light breathed life into the worn, faceless statues of winged angels, smoothing away fissures and softening broken edges. America felt like they were staring at him with silent, accusing faces and narrowed, mocking eyes.

_You were supposed to have died, _they seemed to be saying.

America raked a hand through his hair, scattering flecks of dirt, and avoided their gaze. Technically, he was supposed to have died millennia ago, along with his people. _Stop trying to make me feel guilty. _

The cemetery was a small one, encircled by a narrow strip of weathered white fencing. Large trees bordering the perimeter carefully sealed off an intrusive view of the world outside, but America could hear cars growling nearby, and deduced he had to be near a road. The cemetery was obviously at the back of the building his government reserved for dealings with the ANPs; through the thick latticework of interweaving green branches, America could just make out the blue-grey walls of the building. The evening darkness thankfully shielded his appearance from the house, dimming the lights in the windows.

America exhaled and rolled over, rising slowly rose to his knees. He looked down at himself; the dark dress jacket and shirt were ripped and soiled with earth from his dig out of the grave, and the hems of his jeans were shredded to little more than thin denim strands. He patted his pockets, but he didn't really expect to find anything; they had confiscated his phone (standard government issue, fitted with a GPS tracking device, and used only to contact his handlers) prior to the injection. America felt his arm where the needle had gone in, and was pleasantly surprised to find nothing but a smooth stretch of skin marred by a tiny pinprick scar. His healing abilities were still strong, it seemed.

America climbed to his feet. With a quick shake to rid himself of excess dirt, America turned and kicked the disturbed earth back into the jagged hole that had once been a grave. Satisfied the earth was smooth and all sign of his escape was covered, he turned and strode off in the opposite direction to the building. His strides soon quickened into a full-out sprint – America had no idea what the security systems were like here, and he had no desire to linger and find himself surrounded by all manner of guards.

What would happen to him now? He couldn't go back to the government – for all intents and purposes, he was a criminal, and he was dead. He couldn't go back claiming he was America; the blue hair would hold for several more weeks, and he had already failed in convincing Canada, despite dropping the southern accent.

All that was left to him was the lifeline; the hint, dropped by Colonel Reed in his meeting with the President: "The ANP of America is in his room, reading over the UN meeting transcript.". Obviously it had to be an imposter, even though America had no idea how on earth an imposter could have gotten into his house in such a short amount of time, _and_ put on a convincing enough appearance to fool a battalion of guards, all members of his immediate government and Colonel Reed. America cringed at the thought of what the imposter might be doing – his country could be in chaos!

Whoever the imposter was, he had to go.

America slowed warily as he reached the edge of the cemetery. Squinting into the distance revealed the needle-thin links of a chain fence, the metal lattice occasionally scarred by the hulking silhouettes of several security guards. America felt his heart contract and he swallowed, edging forward.

_Crack._

A twig snapped beneath his shoe.

The guard's head swivelled and America's breath caught in his throat. The security guard squinted into the dusk, and America stood frozen, praying silently, wishing he had had the foresight to at least run over several Covert Ops techniques before attempting to move.

A small bird flitted out into the guard's line of sight. A dun-coloured robin clutching a thin twig in its beak, it dropped its burden, gave a belligerent chirp, and then flitted out of sight over the trees. The guard smiled as he watched it go and turned back, apparently satisfied that whatever he had heard was nothing but an animal.

Watching from the shelter of the trees, America silently started to panic. What could he do? He clearly couldn't sneak around the fence, there were too many guards patrolling. But he couldn't go back to the building either, for he would surely be captured again, and he really had no intention of having to dig his way out of another grave. His clothes were dirty enough, saying nothing of the chaos his appearance would cause.

He set off back the way he had come.

Something crunched nearby, and America stopped. For second, his reflexes took over, the snap decision between fight and flight made fast enough for him to automatically launch himself at the blurred silhouette of his attacker, forcing the figure to the ground before he could properly comprehend what he was doing.

Trapped underneath him, the stranger grinned.

"Hello, America," the ANP of Japan whispered.

**0110111001101111**

* * *

Notes:

I told myself I would take the opportunity and write the jail scene like something involving the Joker out of **The Dark Knight **but my writing muse rebelled against me *sighs sorrowfully* One day, one day…

On an unrelated note: Heath Ledger! :D R.I.P Heath, but I swear, if more actors of the calibre of him and Hugh Jackman turn up, I might just have to renounce my status of being patriotically confused. *waves flag* Temporarily proud to be Aussie!

Speaking of **The Dark Knight**, I have another Hetalia AU fanfiction among the many floating around somewhere on my trusty ol' backburner that incorporates RusAme and **The Dark Knight **themes. Oh, yeah, and America's the Joker xD No, it's not as good as a crossover, but stay tuned :P

**Trivia Time!: **(again :D) What do the romanized lyrics from Country Where The Sun Rises: Zipangu mean, and why are they ironic? Hint: You may have to wait to read Chapter 3 :P

**Answers To Last Trivia: **The scene separators are binary code for the English word **No**. The person who originally said "Nothing strengthens authority so much as silence," was **Leonardo Da Vinci **

Thank you for reading!

xxx

**Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated **

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the aforementioned works. **


	3. Cafe Conversation

**THE FAN INVESTIGATION**

**CHAPTER THREE**

**CAFÉ CONVERSATION**

* * *

"Japan!" America gasped, mind whirling.

"I believe I just said that, American-san." Japan grimaced. "Now, could you please let me up? You're rather heavy."

America did so. Japan climbed to his feet, brushing dirt off his jeans. He shook his hair out of his eyes, adjusted his glasses, and spoke quietly. "I'm afraid I can't answer any questions right now; we have to get out of here."

America jumped. In the haste of the previous goings-on, he had almost forgotten about the patrolling guards. His line of sight pivoted back to the distant fence – had the guards seen them? "Right, we should go."

Japan nodded. "Yes. Follow me." Turning, the Asian ANP headed off. The light had long faded, creating intricate patterns of shadows through the trees. The chill breeze strengthened, wailing between the distorted trunks and carrying the scent of wood rot.

"Japan, where are we going?" America asked as he stumbled forward. Thorns from bushes caught at the fabric of his jeans, and damp leaves added to the steady collection of grime on his skin. His thoughts were whirling so fast they barely left room for comprehension; his mind seemed to have decided to postpone all form of understanding to a later date.

"I've parked a car nearby." Japan's enigmatic voice drifted back to him. Japan was dressed surprisingly casually in faded blue jeans and a high-collared green turtleneck. America had never seen him in anything other than a plain dark suit; his new attire was quite startling. He spoke English quite fluently too, which surprised him; Japan had never shown any previous inclination towards any language other than his own, instead waiting patiently for his translator.

The car turned out to be parked almost parallel to the white fence surrounding the cemetery; America looked around warily as Japan approached it. "Hasn't anyone noticed?"

Japan's voice was tense as he fiddled with the car keys. "They haven't yet, but we have to be quick."

America nodded, opened the door and quickly climbed into the passenger seat, Japan climbing into the driver's side. The car growled as the engine fired to life, the never-ending stream of snarls soon ebbing into a low purr as Japan guided the car slowly out of the vicinity of the cemetery.

America waited until they had joined the highway leading into Washington DC's inner city before speaking urgently. "Why are you here? What are you doing? How did you manage to get here from Japan? Why aren't your handlers with you?"

"One at a time!" Japan held up a hand. His jaw was rigid in tension. "America, I'm really sorry, but I can't answer your questions right now, we're too near the building."

"So?"

"There could be government spies listening." Japan's face was taut.

America's first impulse was to laugh but, seeing the seriousness of Japan's face, he fell silent. Reflecting, he admitted it could very well be true – they _had _just escaped from a building designed to deal with enemies of the ANPs. A lifetime of witnessing the efficiency of the government could lead to beliefs in various things that would be considered bizarre by the average populace. "Yeah, good point."

It was mostly dark outside the window; the neon lights of Washington DC fled past, flickering like demented fireflies. The long shadows slid sinuous black fingers over the car, staining the paintwork inky dark in the patches unlit by the neon glare. Few cars were prowling the streets at this time of night, leaving the twisting roads mainly silent.

America sat next to Japan in silence, resting his head back against the seat. The car's vibrations were making his head shudder uncomfortably back against the leather upholstery, doing nothing to lessen the pain.

"My head hurts." America grunted after a long silence.

Japan barely glanced at him, apprehensive black gaze fixed on the road. "There's some aspirin in the glove box."

America blinked. His head was throbbing horribly now, distilling the world into waves of hazy, distant pain. "What's a glove box?"

Japan sighed almost inaudibly. "The glove compartment." His voice was cool and caustic, and his hard gaze was unforgiving; no love, no hate, no loss. Despite everything, they were still ANPs, and old habits were hard to break.

Shrugging off his driver's iciness, America groped for the glove compartment, opening it with a shallow click. Sure enough, a bottle of tablets rolled around the compartment next to a pair of what America presumed to be spare ignition keys and a Japanese-English dictionary. Downing the aspirin dry brought surprising relief, as if a fire had suddenly been doused in cool water. "Thanks, man."

Japan bowed slightly. Hunched over the steering wheel as he was, the movement looked slightly ridiculous. "You're welcome." He checked the wing mirror and the lines of his face were instantly flung into shock. "There's a police car behind us."

America twisted around. "What?"

The familiar blinking red and white lights were pulling up alongside them; Japan exchanged a nervous glance with America before rolling down the dark-tinted window to allow the moustachioed policeman a view of their faces. Mindful of his recent escape, America pressed himself back against the seat, hiding his face with his hair, and tried to control his rapidly thudding heart.

"Do you realize your car's unregistered, buddy?" the policeman inquired, and America shot Japan a panicked look. Unregistered?

Japan's fingers were clenched so tightly around the steering wheel his knuckles were turning an alarming shade of white. He then launched into the most authentic imitation of an American accent America had ever heard from the mouth of a foreigner. "Oh yeah, I'm taking it to get registered in Alabama…"

The policeman raised an eyebrow. "Right, well, we'll be needing to see the paperwork…"

Japan floored the accelerator suddenly, launching the car forward so fast America's head slammed back against the seat. "What the hell are you doing?" he yelled as they left the police car behind them in a screech of rapidly spinning tyres.

Japan spoke through gritted teeth. "Hang on!"

There was a T intersection coming up; Japan swerved left so suddenly America's heart lurched in his chest. The distant whine of the sirens started up behind them; America spun around just in time to see the sleek blue police car weaving towards them through the oncoming rush of traffic.

"They're gaining on us!" he yelled, deciding that if he had to endure a car chase, the least he could do was contribute.

Japan snarled something in Japanese under his breath before raising his voice and switching to English. "We're going to have to lose them. Hang on tight."

"Have you gone insane?" America yelled as Japan floored the accelerator. They had to be driving at least eighty miles an hour; if the police didn't catch them first, they would surely be booked for speeding.

Japan didn't answer, his face taut with concentration. "Just calm down!"

He yanked on the steering wheel. The black SUV swung in a wide arc towards a narrow street leading off the motorway, snaking off into the depths of Washington DC's darkness. America's heart jolted to his throat as he watched the wing mirrors scrape along the brick houses on either side of the alley, lighting the blackness with a brief blizzard of white sparks.

Another persistent whine of the sirens joined the other one blitzing the air behind them; America glanced over his shoulder. "Crap, here comes another one!"

Unbelievably, Japan stopped the car.

"What are you doing?" America yelled at him.

Japan's face was flushed, strands of black hair clinging to his sweating forehead as he unbuckled his seatbelt. "Glock." He hissed through gritted teeth.

America stared at him, uncomprehending. "What?"

Japan opened the car door, face contorted in frustration. "There's a Glock under your seat! Grab it!" Japan reached over, grabbing a bundle of dark fabric from the back seat before lobbing it at America. "Here's a hoodie – use it to hide your face."

But America had his mind on other matters. "What the hell am I supposed to do with a Glock? How the hell did you get a Glock anyway?"

"Give it to me!" Japan snapped, extending his fingers impatiently towards him.

"Are you going to shoot them?" America asked weakly, mindful of the wailing sirens getting closer.

Japan huffed through his teeth, grabbed the Glock from his hand, and cocked it with a loud click. "You obviously didn't see who was in the back seat of that police car, did you?"

"Who?" America demanded, yanking the soft black fabric of the hoodie over his head and flipping the hood.

"Tall man, white hair, blue eyes, looked military…"

America's heart lurched. "Fuck, that's Colonel Reed! What's he doing in a police car?"

Japan fiddled with the gun clip, avoiding his gaze. "He probably hitched a ride..."

The sirens were close now, successfully ending any further attempts at conversation. America and Japan looked towards the mouth of the alley. The blue bodies of two police cars were cautiously nosing around the worn brick, lights flashing menacingly.

"Get out of the car, get out of the car!" Japan's words came out in a never-ending hiss as strident as a boiling kettle and America obeyed, fumbling with the car door handle until the door fell away and he stumbled out into the cold night.

Japan's hand almost instantly clenched around his wrist, all icy cold fingers and burningly painful nails. "When I shoot, knock out the rest and take that first car, alright?"

"Freeze!" a police officer barked as soon as they approached. He was short, brunette, and America's knowledge instantly saddled him with a name – Travis Wells. Travis's mouth quivered as his blue eyes alighted on the gun in Japan's hand, but he didn't back away. "Drop your weapons! Put your hands behind your…"

Japan shot.

Killshot.

One bullet, but it was enough – shooting through the air and embedding deep within the policeman's chest. America cried out as Travis Wells fell, the flash burn of pain above his heart as intense as if he himself had gotten shot, but then he was running, shooting across the enclosed space of the alley straight for the two cars. It took only several movements to incapacitate the rest of the policemen – a roundhouse here, a kick there – but by the time America had finished, the passengers of the first police car were lying in huddles on the cold concrete, Japan and America were inside the car, Japan flung his bag into the backseat and they were away, shooting through the streets, the sirens blaring, the police left behind them in a trail of dust.

"Fucking hell." America gasped. His heart was thudding so hard he doubted it would be satisfied in his chest any longer; he almost looked down to ascertain there wasn't any blood. Hysteria overtook him, and he reached over to angrily punch Japan in the shoulder. "What the _hell _was that about, huh? Now everybody knows I've escaped!"

"No, they don't." Japan's voice was as calm as ever. The Glock was resting on the console beside them, plain and unassuming, feigning ignorance. "You were wearing a hood, remember?"

America touched the black fabric and grimaced. "You crazy bastard, since when did you become Jack Brabham?"

"I'm sorry, I do not know who he is." Japan's bleak gaze was fixed on the road.

America slumped in his seat, angrily raking a hand through his hair. "Nevermind." He slapped the dashboard angrily. "Just what the hell are we supposed to do with this, huh? A police car! That's nearly as conspicuous as if we'd borrowed an elephant from the fucking Arab region!"

"I believe India is more known for its elephants, America," Japan's voice was so deathly calm America felt like throttling him. "But I admit this is a bit conspicuous, and I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking clearly. I thought it would be a good distraction, and it would be safer if we hijacked a police car,. Nobody would pull us over to question us..." His eyes flicked quietly towards him. "But if it makes you feel any better, we could abandon this and proceed on foot. I have a hotel room nearby…"

America leant his head back against the seat. "Fine. Fine. I don't know. I don't know what the hell to do. Fine. Just do it." Then a thought occurred to him, and he sat up, glaring at his driver. "But I want answers, do you hear me? And if you ever want to drag me halfway around Washington in a fucking police car again, let me know sometime. I want answers." He repeated, suddenly feeling very frustrated and very confused and very alone.

Japan pressed down on the accelerator. "Thank you, America-san. I knew you'd see it my way."

His only answer was a low snarl.

**0110111001101111**

"I discovered Hetalia a month ago," Japan explained, pushing his glasses further up his nose as his right hand curled around a red mug. Japan and America had taken shelter inside the Red Flare, an offbeat restaurant hidden in Washington DC's downtown, after abandoning the police car in a vacant lot of a nearby mall. Japan's backpack was resting next to the chair leg; from it, he had procured a simple white T-shirt and blue denim jeans, which he had offered to America in exchange for his ripped grave wear. Yet there was something about the meagre trickle of nighttime patrons in the restaurant that told America the restaurant wasn't exactly frequented by the societal norm; across the room, he could see a man with flaming red hair talking expressively to what looked like a punk with bleached blonde hair, a nose-ring and purple eyeliner.

But America had his mind on other things. "How did you know where to find me?"

Japan quirked an eyebrow at him. "I'm getting to that." He lifted the mug to take a gulp, then set it down, thin fingers flexing almost like a spider. He arched an eyebrow at him. "Is your head alright?"

America rubbed the back of his head, where a large bruise throbbed beneath the strands of blue hair. His head hadn't stopped hurting since the car chase, but he wasn't going to tell Japan that. The stress and anxiety of the previous chase had faded from his mind slightly – now all he wanted to do was to take his mind of it. He had seen people get shot before – it happened all the time, for God's sake, why should this time around be any different? "I'm okay." A waiter strolled nearby, bearing a basket that smelt like a baker's oven, and his stomach growled. He realized he hadn't eaten in several hours.

"Help yourself." Japan said, smiling slightly. "I'll pay. Nice hair, by the way."

America rolled his eyes, flagged down the waiter, and, after a brief conferral and the clink of coins, withdrew with a large bread roll stuffed full of melted cheese, tomato and herbs, which he proceeded to tear into with gusto. Realizing Japan was waiting, he added, "Go on."

Japan bowed slightly. "As I was saying, I discovered Hetalia online about a month ago."

"What did you think about it?" America asked, slightly apprehensively.

Something like anger flared in Japan's pitch-black eyes. "That cartoon has to be the most offensive piece of garbage that has ever been produced. Not only does it compromise our security, it also distorts facts." Japan elegantly steepled his long white fingers, the movement a contrast to his sudden outburst.

America thought of the pornography he had witnessed, and shuddered. "Yeah. Did you see the… the…" he searched his memory for the term.

"The USUK?" The man's eyebrow rose; the ANP grimaced. "Yes. Well, that only proves my point, really."

America flung up his hands, nearly upending his bread roll. "How can someone _make_ that?" His tone was about equal in terms of disgust and revulsion. "I mean, come on, England was an empire!" Hysteria bit his throat, and before he knew it, he was saying "I'm the United States of America!"

_America is a cheerful, energetic and somewhat conceited young man who is obsessed with heroes, justice, and freedom…_

"Remember where we are." Japan cautioned. The Asian ANP's dark eyes flitted tensely around the room. "There could be people watching."

America looked around at the majority of the pierced, tattooed patrons. He thought of his politicians, with their designer suits and clean-cut efficiency, and had the mad urge to laugh. Then he thought of the car chase. "Right, yeah, sorry." A thought struck him and he asked "What about you? Did the comic say anything about you?"

"It's a manga, and yes, it did." Japan adopted a long-suffering expression. "Apparently I'm a hermit and I know nearly nothing about other cultures."

America laughed. "Right. Did they also…" he stopped. It occurred to him that what he had been about to say was slightly awkward so he fell silent. _Oh God… _

Japan didn't seem perturbed. "Yes." His expression was pained. "China, for one. And England too."

"Oh God." America groaned. Then a thought occurred to him "What is with England getting paired up all the time, anyway? And I saw a picture of him licking a sword too, what's up with that?"

Japan shuddered, clearly not wanting to pursue the topic and further. "I don't really want to know, to be honest." For a second, his eyes focused on something America couldn't see - he looked almost speculative, as if pondering the pornography they had witnessed. Then he tilted his head to one side, forehead furrowing in thought. "We're going to have to start using other names. Do you have one?"

America nodded. "Yeah, Alfred F. Jones."

A smile touched Japan's face. "The Tumblr user?"

_The Tumblr user that doesn't exist anymore, _America thought balefully, thinking of Colonel Reed. "Yeah. What's yours?"

Japan leaned back. "Kiku Honda."

America had to stifle laughter. "Like, the car? Seriously?"

Japan's cheeks reddened slightly. "It's a good car. Anyway, so, like I said, I discovered Hetalia about a month ago." he leaned forward. "Now, brace yourself, I know you're not going to believe this."

America braced himself.

"The cartoon Japan came to life."

America waited. "… okay. What's the punchline?"

Irritation flashed in Japan's eyes. "There is no punchline. That's the truth."

"What, so a cartoon managed to come to life?" America scoffed. "Yeah, right."

"You know, that's what I don't like about Americans," Japan's voice was nonchalant, but the fire that flashed in his eyes served as a reminder to America that, even if they were together now, they were still ANPs. The rules still applied: no love, no hate, no physical contact… "They always demand visual evidence. _Think_, Alfred. Do you remember anything?"

America thought. His eyes widened as, almost unbidden, his thoughts flew back to Colonel Reed. "Yes!" he whispered, almost unable to believe it. "Colonel Reed… he's my attendant. When I was locked up, he said something about me being in my house reading. But how could I, when I was locked up?"

"That was obviously the cartoon America," Japan sounded tired, pushing his glasses further up his nose with a knobbly index finger.

America narrowed his eyes at him. "Wait a minute, how do you know all of this? How do you know the cartoon Japan came to life?"

"It was quite simple, really." Japan's tone was dry as he traced the rim of his mug with one long finger. "I woke up one day, spent half the time wondering why nobody was attending to me, and was just about to go through the door to a meeting when I saw the cartoon Japan walk past."

America frowned. "Wait, wait, wait, how can a _cartoon _come to life?"

Japan lifted and dropped his shoulders in an elegant shrug. "I don't know. All I know is that it has."

"Wait…" A thought was working its way into America's head. "Shit!"

Japan blinked, startled. "What is it?"

America drummed his fingers along the edge of the table, as he always did when under pressure. The tap of his fingernails were muffled by the thick tablecloth. "I just thought… if the cartoon America is in my… _our _world, then he wouldn't know all the rules, right?" At Japan's nonplussed expression, he went on "Then he'll mess everything up! I mean, the cartoon America's supposed to be an idiot, right? There's no telling what state my government will be in."

Japan held up his hands. "Hold on. I left when the cartoon Japan took my place. Things have been proceeding normally since then."

America's attention was diverted. "Wait, you've been free for a month? How? What did you do?"

Japan sighed. "Before the war, I guessed that the government would have to place more restrictions on us either before or after the peace talks, so I opened a private bank account under the name of Kiku Honda and deposited money in there, just in case I'd need it."

America had to smile. "This bank account wouldn't happen to be Swiss, would it?"

Japan waved his comment aside. "He's good at banking, I'll give him that. Anyway, so, when I escaped, I went over to the bank account and got the money. I'd hidden some private credit cards in the vaults there too; you know how the governments are always monitoring ours."

America whistled. "So, you were prepared." In the light of Japan's extreme organization, his own efforts at escaping and evading detection seemed feeble in comparison. "That's really cool. But how come you're in Washington DC now?"

"I've been monitoring the government databases. When I heard that somebody had been arrested for breaking into a 'national dignitary's' house, I had to wonder." Japan gave a rueful smile. "I'm nothing if not too curious for my own good." He spread his hands. "Now, getting back to the cartoon…"

"Hang on, wait…" America held up a hand. "How can cartoons come to life, anyway? Is it something about us ANPs specifically reading them? How did the creator of the comic know so much about us anyway?"

"I don't know, I don't know, and I don't know." Japan sounded tired. "All I know is that they seem to have taken our place…"

"How do you know that?" America asked suspiciously.

Japan smiled with something akin to deviousness. "Most nations have at least a competent knowledge of hacking, don't they?" Seeing America's expression, he sighed "I hacked into the government cameras at the WORLD meeting."

"Can you do that to the next one?" America begged. At Japan's reluctant expression, he added "Please, Ja… Kiku. I have to know. Who knows what the imposter could be doing?"

Japan sighed, dragging his black hair back off his forehead with a hand. "I booked a hotel room nearby. We could go there, if you like."

America jumped up. "Yes! Thank you so much, Japan, really, you're a…"

"Alfred, please, sit down, you're attracting attention." Japan sounded tired. "And stop referring to me as Japan, please, it's Kiku."

America sat down, feeling slightly chagrined. "Sorry."

"That's alright." Japan nodded at the remains of his bread roll. "Are you finished?"

America nodded. "Yeah." A thought occurred to him as he stood up. "Hey, Ja… Kiku?" the name felt strange on his tongue.

Japan was swinging his backpack onto his shoulders. "Yes?"

America's voice was quiet, thoughtful. "Why did you come to _me_? I mean, I know the cartoon America's come to life, but why tell me any of this?"

Japan paused. His fingers toyed with the strap of his bag. "Well," his scathing tone was as bleak as frost. "I figured anyone who'd bombed Nagasaki would cause such a fuss it would take an enemy to hold him back."

Which left America feeling completely confused.

**0110111001101111**

When America arrived at Japan's hotel room, his first reaction was to gape.

"Whoa!" he exclaimed. He paused for a moment, taking it all in, before he whipped around to face Japan. "How much did this cost?"

Japan was lugging his backpack, trailing a little distance away behind the blonde American. "It's only for five nights," he muttered.

America spun back. "Dude, that's, like, a week. This place is awesome!"

Everything in the room was exquisitely maintained, all the charcoal and chocolate shades of the quality only to be expected of a high-class hotel room, but what America was mainly enraptured by was the view. Brown curtains framed an elegant pair of French windows looking out onto a faint, indistinct view of a blurred Washington DC, the distant Lincoln Memorial, and a midnight sky strewn with dark clouds.

America sighed happily. "This is completely awesome." Glancing back over his shoulder, he added, a thought occurring to him. "Where do I sleep?"

Japan stopped. His face suddenly reddened. "Ah." Dropping the bag, he strode past the blonde ANP towards the slatted brown door at the opposite end of the room and disappeared through it.

America frowned. "Alright then, I'll wait." Casting his gaze around the room for something to do came up with a small, neat row of books leaning demurely against each other on the top shelf of a small bookcase, so America flung himself down onto one of the pale cream sofas, plucked a book at random off the shelf, and began to read.

Japan materialized back into the room so fast America jumped slightly. The ANP's normally fair cheeks were stained pink with a faint blush. "I've just realized there's only one bed. I'll sleep on the couch."

America frowned, abandoning the beginning of the novel. "Are you sure, dude?"

"Perfectly sure." Japan smiled wanly.

America raised both hands. "Dude, it's your room, I don't want to, you know, intrude or anything…."

"Don't be silly." Japan wended his way towards the couch, sitting down beside him. His bag was on the floor beside the couch where he had left it – the black-haired ANP grabbed and unzipped it, rifling through the contents. "Rest, shower, and get some sleep. You've had a rough night."

America jumped up with a smile. "Alright, cool. Thanks, dude." Looking around, he asked. "Hey, where's the bathroom?"

Japan pointed towards a door at the other end of the room without looking up; his forage through the bag had produced a laptop which he was currently bent over, eyes narrowed in concentration at his fingers danced across the keys.

America felt amused. "Cool, thanks." Feeling the aches and seeing the dirt his experiences had left him with, he added, voicing the thought aloud purely to let Japan know. "Is it okay if I have a bath?"

As soon as he said it, he realized how… _dorky_ it sounded. Seriously, who took _baths_? But Japan simply shrugged and said "Why not?"

_Yeah, _America thought, feeling slightly spontaneous, _why the hell not? _Book under his arm, the blonde America ANP wended his way through the room towards the bathroom, leaving Japan alone with his laptop in the rapidly growing darkness.

**0110111001101111**

To be continued...

* * *

Notes:

… I take baths xD

Gaah, that was so hard to write! Let it now be known I'm the worst person you can hire for writing impromptu car chase scenes in the world. Of course, I was writing this chapter in between exams, so maybe that's why it was so overwhelmingly hard to write :P My brain can only hold so much information at once, and don't get me started on the character's reactions in this. I mean, one minute America's having palpitations, the next he's grinning and laughing like nothing had happened?

Yeah. I've got to work on that.

I relied mainly on scenes from **Jack Heath's 'Agent Six of Hearts' **series to help me write the car chase scene. If any of you haven't read **The Lab **yet, you should. It's a really exciting, gripping sci-fi book featuring Chuck Norris-esque fight scenes, and I've even been lucky enough to actually meet the author, Jack Heath, in the past – he's the most hilarious author (Australian, whoop whoop) that I've ever met :)

**Answers to last trivia: **The lyrics _"Aratamemashite nihon desu, shumi wa kuuki wo yonde hatsugen wo tsutsushimu koto desu.",_ from Country Where The Sun Rises Zipangu, mean **"Nice to meet you, my name is Japan. My hobbies are analysing the situation and determining whether or not to speak.".** They're ironic because, well, just look at the car chase scene xD Anyone who drives like Jack Brabham doesn't deserve the lyrics, I say.

Oh yeah, and **Jack Brabham**'s an Australian (somebody please stop me putting so many Australian things in this, I mean, come on, this fic is set in AMERICA xD) Formula One racing car driver, renowned for performing many bizarre driving manoeuvres (although, really, aren't all F1 drivers? xD)

Thank you all once again for reading! Words fail me in telling you how wonderful you all are! *hugs*

xxxx

**Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated **

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the aforementioned works. **


	4. A Dream Of A Dream

**THE FAN INVESTIGATION**

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**A DREAM OF A DREAM**

* * *

America had an odd dream that night.

_America saw himself fall. From somewhere outside he saw his own electric blue hair snatched at by wind that bubbled like water as it ran luminescent fingers through the strands. _

_He saw himself plummeting into an infinite darkness. He could see the blackness stretching out before him, a never-ending plane of inky dark. He could feel the icy rush of air whistling past his damp skin, his stomach turning, then weightlessness settling in. Yet something just wasn't right – suddenly he was inside his body, suddenly he was watching it. With every blink, his perspective seemed to change – one minute, inside, with the harsh snapping of his clothing and the whistling of his hair, then _blink_: outside, invisible no matter how hard his eyes scanned the dark. _

_America watched the liquid darkness slow his fall to nearly floating, gravity sustaining him and, as soon as his feet touched the cold, bare tiles, America was suddenly very firmly back in his own body, his formless, intangible self expanding to fill all the empty spaces. _

_He stumbled over a crack in the tiling, and very nearly toppled. _

_He was standing in the middle of a darkened room. Red and white lights pulsated unpleasantly in the bottomless dark, giving the illusion of objects – America almost expected to lift his arms and discover machines grouped around him, invisible in the blackness. The dull whining of overheating computers built gradually behind him and he whirled around; he felt cornered, threatened, about to be the recipient of an attack._

_His heartbeat stuttered in his ears. _

_Bright fluorescents blazed to life on the ceiling above him and he yelped, clapping both palms to his eyes in an attempt to shield them from the sudden light. Between his fingers, he saw the room clearly for the first time, and gaped. _

_Cryogenic chambers. That was the only name he could think of to describe them. Cryogenic chambers squatted around the edge of the vast room, fat and bulky in their never-ending shades of dark-tinted glass and metal bases. The fluorescents cast unflattering white light onto the nearest cryogenic chamber – he approached it, and gasped. _

_His face stared back at him from the square of cut, icy glass, almost frightening in its stillness; slack and vacant in what seemed to be a deep sleep, eyes closed. Frost clung resolutely to strands of blonde hair (undyed, he noticed) and silvered his cheeks. _

_With reverent fingers, America traced along the glass. His skin throbbed from the coldness, and his gasps came in hot puffs of steamy breath. Staring back was a face he would never forget in a million years: his own. Except… there was some measure of difference, like there was something just not quite right about it. America was reminded vaguely of those plastic children's books with see-through pages, printed so the pictures could be overlain, printed so a caterpillar on a leaf could become milky and white without moving at all. The man in the chamber was America – was Alfred F. Jones – and yet there was something _missing. _There were stark, bruise-like shadows layering the skin beneath those closed eyes, and the set of his lips was simply too harsh… _

_A voice sounded from behind him and America whipped around. _

"_So, have you figured it out yet?" _

_Standing behind him was a man of average height, sitting casually on one of the chambers, wearing the shadows comfortably across his chest like a coat. Steel rims of glasses gave the blue eyes beneath an overtly threatening appearance as he glanced at him up and down; America felt like those eyes were stripping him bare, flaying off his skin in long, congealed strips to reveal bones and muscles dripping and festering with rot, his whole self unravelling and falling away to reveal… _

_What? He didn't know. He had never before felt so alone in his life and, as his fingers rose unconsciously to splay against the back of his head, he realized._

_The knowledge had gone._

_The voices – throbbing and buzzing painfully at the back of his skull – had silenced, as quickly and as effectively as a magician flinging a silk black cloth over a hat, as quickly as a match being blown into nonexistence._

_Nonexistence…_

_America swayed, and the world swayed along with him._

"_Yes." The man hummed thoughtfully, and America jumped. His blue eyes were as bland as hoarfrost, bald and unassuming. "It's very interesting, isn't it?" _

"_Who…" America's voice trembled in the icy-cold silence. "Who are you?" _

_The man stepped forward. He was close – too close – but as he traced America's face with fingers that burnt like flame, he couldn't help but remain rooted to the spot. "I am the composer." He whispered, and his voice was the throb of the unceasing dark. "Or maybe I'm the messenger." _

_His face shifted, morphed; suddenly, America was looking at the man's face through a kaleidoscope of stained glass and then something, something intangible _shifted_, shedding layers like onion skins, and suddenly… _

_Suddenly America was looking at himself. _

That's not me, _America thought, suddenly frightened. _That's definitely not me. It's not going to be me, but…

_Except, except…_

_Except the darkness in those blue eyes simply couldn't compare to what he himself felt, and there was no way the tilt of that head could be considered anything but harsh. Those glassy cerulean eyes bled endless desire, leaking into a ceaseless torrent that left America feeling shaken. _

What did he want? _And then: _What do _I _want?

_A sudden _crack_ rent the air, and the room exploded into a million fragments. The ice that had infested the room lent its power, robbing every vestige of its last piece of heat, turning the watercolour-dark scene into a myriad of shattered shards. Splinters of glass and grout sprayed across the floor. _

This is the beginning of a story that seemed to have already ended, _murmured a voice, as America and the room rained down into the glittering dark. _

_Upside-down, America saw the tiny chips of glass glint in a non-existent light, exploding and combusting into oblivion. While the explosions were short, sharp and vivid, the shards themselves were slow – turning so slowly it seemed they were immune to gravity, a sky of glittering sharp-edged stars. _

_He landed on something that was neither hard nor soft, and he looked down and realized it was a window. A window depicted the faces of all the nations in pale, watercolour shades – the mass of pale, emotionless faces made him feel scared, trapped. _

_Black bled into white in a monochromatic tableau – the stained glass blinked winningly in the soft golden light from above, and America tried not to think about how familiar those dark eyes were, even as they glared upwards from a bone-pale face and heavy lids. _

"_Japan…" America knew he should feel nervous, confused, but his emotions seemed to have been sapped, shredding along with the glass shards he seemed to have left behind. His eyes riveted to the image's hands – those alabaster fingers clawing at the frame, giving the illusion of three dimensions as though he was about to burst from glass, and was that a rising sun and its rays in the background? _

_The Japanese Empire. America's breath came in a slow shudder, and suddenly he realized he wasn't alone._

"_Damnit," muttered a cockney-accented voice from behind him, and America whipped around for the second time. The light glinted off studs and piercings and layered a face in black and white – gaping eyes drowning in a pool of black. "Still stuck." _

"_Hello?" America called. He took several steps backwards as the man stalked across the… window? floor? ground? towards him. He faltered as the stranger neared him, tilting his head. "Wh-who are you?" _

_A moment of abject silence broke into a creak of leather as the stranger reached up and yanked his hood off. _

_America nearly choked on his breath. Convulsively, his eyes darted from the stranger's face to the windowed floor – seeking the face in amidst the myriad of painted faces, then darting back. _

_Jade eyes – a little brighter than England's – stared at him from circles of dark eyeliner. Piercings turned lips silver as they lifted in a contemptuous quirk. Nothing about this man matched the glass copy staring out at them from under his feet; his hair lifted in frenzied bleach-blonde spikes striped in red, virtually standing on end, and the lights glinted unpleasantly off leather and metal. _

"_Do you know who I am?" the stranger asked softly, and America almost choked._

_He thought he knew. There was no possible way this stranger could be who he thought he was though, so it was alright… wasn't it? _

"_Are you England?" America squeaked. _

_He smiled icily. "That depends. Are you?" _

_America didn't know. He couldn't make heads or tails of the question, no matter which way he looked at it, and the stranger was staring at him with green eyes that looked so much like England's yet _weren't_… He knew, from some intangible, indefinable sense that who he was facing simply _wasn't_, didn't exist, it was all a dream… _

"_A dream of a dream within a dream," the stranger answered, and America felt like punching him. _

"_No, you don't understand…" his voice came out as a terrified squeak. Coats of arms emblazoned the walls, flung into high relief by a bloody red light that came out of nowhere – Prussia, Austo-Hungary, Ancient Rome, Novgorod Republic, British Empire, and he realized they were standing inside a room, a room with pale yellow walls that seemed to be bulging outwards, and yet… _

"_Wh-where am I?" America stepped backwards. _

_The stranger shuddered, flickering and crackling and fading in and out of focus like a bad projection. Black bled into yellow, white bled into red, and he was _caught,_ caught and clenched inside the frenzied, erratic beat of a strobe light…_

"_Y-you…" _

_The room flashed black, blue, and the world fell away. _

_The darkness curling upwards, licking his eyes, smothering his voice, stealing his breath as he fell at breakneck pace through oblivion into darkness. That voice that sounded like England's but not carried over the screaming of the wind and the howling of the room as it splintered and shattered into a million pieces. _

"_Voulez-vous?" _

_America tried to resist. "Th-that's an ABBA so…"_

_The blackness smothered his words and cast him away into darkness. _

**0110111001101111**

The car screeched down the deserted road as the storm-clouds above released their burden. A gnarled streak of lightning flashed across the steel grey sky, briefly turning the thick grey clouds purple. Rain thundered down in icy sheets, spattering against the dark, twisting labyrinth of cobbled streets. Dim streetlights struggled to illuminate the city streets as the thunder boomed angrily, echoing through the streets. Gutters feverishly and lightning lit up the sky, however all this water was meaningless to the two figures running silently through the waterlogged streets.

The black SUV was parked at the edge of the curb and two people climbed out, eyes penetrating the dense fog and the heavy deluge of rain that battered the city.

"This is getting out of hand." One of them said eventually, flicking water from his hair.

The other gave an angry hiss, fists clenching. "What the hell did you expect? I told you it wasn't going to work."

The man's eyes flashed in irritation. "If it wasn't for you and your bloody fandom…"

"Me?" the single word was conveyed in a shriek. "What about you?"

"I don't have one, because everyone runs in the other direction!" Fists clenched. "Do you have _any _idea what it's like? Not only to we have them to deal with, I have to cope with you attracting half the bloody continent!"

"It's not my fault! What happened to the rest of them?"

"Oh, I don't know." The taller of the two's tone dripped sarcasm. "Maybe it's all down to you."

A low snarl. "Yeah, because it's all my fault, isn't it? Everything that could possibly go wrong in the whole wide world is because of me!"

The man blinked, composure rattled. "No, no, don't say that…"

"But it's true though." The other's voice sounded low, defeated.

The man flung an arm around his companion's shoulders, hostilities forgotten in an instant. "But you're strong."

A single eye glared up at him. "Bastard. I'm never strong, not since…" Words deserted him and his shoulders slumped in defeat.

The man's eyes narrowed, determination blitzing his cloudy irises with sudden emotion. "Come on. We have work to do."

"You know it's illegal, right?" the other inquired, wringing water from the hem of his shirt.

The older smirked. "Since when have we ever fully cooperated with the law?"

The other remained unconvinced, petulantly tapping the concrete with the toe of one sodden shoe. "Almost always."

The older's eyes flashed irritably. "Oh for God's sake, just come on."

Shaking water-sodden hair from his eyes, the taller of the two men crossed the street, dragging the young behind him by the arm. Together, the two people hurried over to a building, gratefully entering the shelter of the revolving doors and into the interior of the building.

The lobby of the building was pristine and immaculate. The marble floor stretched over to dark panelled walls, a slowly revolving chandelier flinging spots of light crazily around the room. Without bothering to feel embarrassed about the steady drip of water from their clothes, the two people entered an elevator next to the main desk. Hurrying out of the elevator once it had reached its floor, the two people made their way down a small, grey-painted corridor and over to the door at its end. There was nothing on the plain grey, perfectly rectangular door that gave any indication as to what could be inside. Undeterred, the older man pushed the door open.

There was no warning. The older man simply opened the door, the younger saw there was an old man inside sitting at a desk with his back facing them, raised his gun, and shot him. The sound was loud – loud enough to reverberate around the cramped indoor space, but the two men were wearing earplugs.

They escaped out the back fire escape. Nobody saw them go. It was several minutes until the alarm was raised, but by then, they had long ago melted into the night, leaving nothing by the screech of tyres in their wake.

**0110111001101111**

America woke up feeling as though somebody had slapped him around the face. For a moment he lay there, disoriented. A strange acidic, bitter taste was sticking to his tongue, bringing with it the sensation that something was wrong; that something just wasn't right. His eyes darted as he sat up, unsure exactly of what he was expecting; a monster hiding beneath the bed? But the room was as serene as ever in its muted pale-blue and green. For a moment, he had a faint sense that he had dreamt that night, but scanning his memory produced nothing.

For a moment he laid there, ears ringing with the silence, half-open eyes only vaguely registering the pale bars of gold sunlight peeping shyly through the gaps in the curtain. He lay snuggled into his blankets, feeling the weight of the hotel room fabric, debating mentally whether to get up or to roll over and fall asleep again. A short groan bulleted past his lips and he tumbled haphazardly from the bed, bare feet icy where his soles pressed against the still-cold floor.

A yawn dragged his lips back as he stooped to snatch his clothes off the floor. Blinking blearily, America slouched off to the bathroom. The scorching hot jet of shower water and thick steam brought a brief relief from the cold before he dressed himself, shivering at the drops of water trailing across his skin.

He stumbled into the main room and into what could only be described as a warzone of cables, blinking monitors, and laptops. In the centre of the chaos slumped a small, slender figure sprawled out on the couch, snoring softly as a laptop blinked steadily on his knees. Japan's hair looked as though a blackbird had exploded on a windshield, sticking up in jagged, messy tufts, and his glasses were askew.

"Rise and shine," America ventured when the ANP did not stir.

Japan twitched and blinked blearily, raising his head. His eyes slowly focused. "America?" Alarm filled those jet-black depths. "What time is it?"

America checked the clock. "It's nine o'clock in the morning,"

Japan sat bolt upright, his eyes suddenly wide. "Oh bloody hell."

The British euphemism made America smile. "You wouldn't have spent a lot of time around England, would you?"

"No." Japan's reply was curt as the Asian nation checked around him. He raked a hand through his black hair – the gesture seemed twitchy and ill-at-ease.

America felt amused. It was a new day, the sun was shining, and he had just woken up. What could there possibly be to worry about? "Something on your mind?"

Japan stretched almost like a cat – the day-old dark shirt rippled in response to his movements. "I spent nearly all last night trying to access the security cameras in the WORLD meeting – I've only just gotten them online now."

America stopped. "Really?" he craned his neck to see the laptop screen. "I didn't know there was one today." WORLD typically stood for World Organization/Rallying Leaders Demonstration – a worldwide meeting of all National Anthropomorphic Personifications, akin to a UN meeting, where they would debate about pressing political matters directly pertaining to them. WORLD meetings generally focused more on the ANPs as a whole – it was just about the only thing the attendants had condoned, knowing just how fragile the ANPs could become. Getting together enabled them to discuss _themselves_, not just their politicians. At one point in time, America had heard Australia refer to them as 'group therapy sessions' in a muttered tone that indicated he was all but pleased with the state of affairs.

If the imposter had to choose any place to better make a fool out of himself, it would be at a WORLD meeting.

Japan frowned and bent forward, nose almost grazing the computer screen. "I had something, but…" his eyes darted tensely back and forth for several moments before he swore under his breath in Japanese and thumped the keyboard. "Damnit, I had it!"

America rolled his eyes. "Right. Good luck with that. I'll make breakfast."

Japan flapped a hand distractedly in his direction, not even glancing at him. America rummaged around in the small fridge next to the bar, feeling ridiculously glad the hotel room came with a stocked fridge – he withdrew with two strawberry Pop-Tarts.

"Want a Pop-Tart?" America called as he slid his own into the toaster.

A flash of irritation breached the espresso-like depths of Japan's eyes, gone so quickly America wasn't entirely sure if it had been there in the first place. "What's a Pop-Tart?"

America was flustered. He had never encountered anybody who didn't know what a Pop-Tart was before. "It's kinda… you know, like a…" he cast around for the appropriate adjective. "It's like a pastry-type thing…" his shoulders slumped. "Anyway, do you want one?"

Japan ran a hand through his hair irritably. "Fine, fine." His eyes were glued to the computer screen.

"Touchy," America muttered, dropping the other Pop-Tart into the toaster.

Japan's shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry, American-san. I'm just a bit stressed."

America nodded sympathetically as he passed Japan his Pop-Tart. "I feel for you, dude." Then curiosity won and he craned his neck forward, intrigued. "Just what _are _you doing, anyway?"

"I'm trying to remotely access the live video feed from the security cameras at the WORLD meeting," came Japan's reply as he bent over the keyboard. "It means trying to bypass government security… I must have dodged at least four hackers since seven o'clock…" Japan's breath hissed from between his teeth in a sudden stream, like a boiling kettle, and his fingers blitzed the keys again.

Eventually Japan sat back with a sigh of relief, and grinned wearily at the blonde ANP. "That was hacker number five."

America shook his head in wonderment, crunching bits of his Pop-Tart and scattering crumbs. "You talented bastard."

"You swear a lot, did you know that? Anyway…" Japan leaned forward and picked up the Pop-Tart gingerly with his finger and thumb, a look of revulsion crossing his face. "What is this?"

America felt insulted. "It's a Pop-Tart. Strawberry flavoured." He slid the last piece of his own into his mouth and beamed. "It's delicious!"

With an expression that looked as though he was about to be court-martialled, Japan sank his teeth into one corner and nibbled off a piece. He choked and nearly went cross-eyed, spraying crumbs. "Euugh!"

America was affronted. "Oh come on, it's not _that _bad!"

Japan winced and replaced the Pop-Tart back on the plate with such a pained expression it almost made America laugh. "It's too sweet."

America shrugged. "Hey, whatever, dude." He grinned at him. "If you're not having it, can I?"

Japan looked faintly queasy. "Alright, whatever you want." Japan watched in faint awe as America eagerly munched, then turned back to his computer.

"I'm bored." America announced after several seconds.

"Oh dear me," Japan murmured sarcastically, eyes still riveted to the screen. "Far be it for me to deprive the great and powerful US of A of any form of entertainment…"

"Dude, you sound like a dictionary," America laughed. Then he quietened. "But seriously, what is there to do?"

Japan cracked his neck, a habit that made America wince. "How about reading a book? You were reading a book yesterday."

America glanced around. A brief scan of the wooden shelves on either side of the window revealed no sign of the book he had been reading last night – a fact that would have unsettled him, had he any real passion for finding missing books. "I can't even remember what book it was."

Japan's reply was so sarcastic for a second America thought he had been replaced by England. "Then sit in a corner and contemplate life, the universe and everything. I am trying to work."

America rolled his eyes. "Alright, fine, whatever works." He sat back against the sofa.

Just what had happened over the past few days? America allowed his mind to wander. He had gotten home after a meeting with the ANPs and logged onto Gmail, finding an email from somebody called François Bonnefoye linking him to a website. He had clicked on the link and it had led him to the strange, bizarre and ultimately frightening phenomenon known as Hetalia. He had decided he had to warn the other ANPs, had disguised himself and tried to escape his house. He had been captured and brought to Colonel Reed, who had interrogated him before sentencing him to death by lethal injection. The fact Canada had been present disturbed him – just what _had _he been doing there? Granted, Colonel Reed probably saw the blue-haired miscreant as a threat to America's security, and Canada had been called in on behalf of the ANP America… but if the imposter had been in America's room at the time, then why hadn't they just simply called him? America felt his head begin to spin, and forced himself to reassess the timeline of events.

He had escaped from the grave, and Japan had found him. They had escaped by car, engaging in a car chase in which the policeman Travis Mills was shot, had ditched the police car they had stolen, and ended up in a café in downtown Washington DC. There Japan had told him he had been on the run for months following a phenomenon in which the cartoon Japan – Hetalia Japan – had come to life.

Just how the hell could a _cartoon _come to life anyway? America frowned in thought. He knew ANPs just didn't operate on the same level as humans – doctors were always running tests on him to figure out just how exactly ANP anatomy worked. Were the ANPs a representation of a country's landmass, or just the people within it? What happened when a country went to war? What happened when a country was split into two, like Vietnam or Korea – did the ANP acquire spontaneous schizophrenia or multiple personality disorder? America knew there were decades of scientific information stored somewhere within government archives, but none of the myriad of files seemed to come any closer to figuring out how ANPs worked than the previous one. It was a mystery that even America didn't know the answer to – it was a bit like prolonged puberty except without the body changes. He just kept finding out new things about himself, and he had no idea he had even possessed the ability. Some things, like the knowledge, were easy – it lasted from the country's creation to its end, which admittedly didn't explain why Germany occasionally hallucinated and believed that he was seeing the ANP of Prussia.

America huffed aloud. "This is so confusing and weird and complicated it's not even funny." He looked over at Japan. "Having any luck there, buddy?"

A look of pure delight was spreading over the Asian nation's face; his head whipped around to America with an audible whooshing noise. "America, I've got it! I've gotten online!"

America abandoned his spot on the couch, hurrying around to Japan's side. "Seriously?"

He stopped and held his breath.

The picture was fuzzy. It was, for all intents and purposes, a security camera – a fuzzy, pixelated view looking out over the heads of the ANPs at the WORLD meeting. Sunlight from a nearby window coloured those heads in black, auburn, copper, burgundy and cold, but what instantly drew America's attention was the figure at the head of the room.

A tall figure with glasses and an aviator's jacket.

Japan groaned. America swore under his breath.

"I'm the hero, guys!" the cartoon America was ranting. His voice had an accent that America almost instantly detested; a strange sort of combination of a Californian and an uptown New Yorker.

Japan sucked in a breath. "The Arab ANPs aren't going to like that," he predicted quietly.

America's fingers clenched down on the arm of the sofa, and his teeth gritted. "No. They will not."

Through the fuzzy security camera, America saw Spain and Mexico exchange bewildered glances. They weren't the only ones; America saw perplexed expressions spreading across the faces of nearly every ANP in the room. America's heart wrenched as he saw his handlers sitting off to one side, alongside Mexico and Canada at the table reserved for the Americas. The translator Dresden glanced worriedly at one of America's stenocaptioners, he had forgotten which.

Colonel Reed coughed quietly, and rose to his feet. "ANP America…"

Japan winced and looked beside him. "Alfred…"

Alfred – there seemed no point in calling himself America any more – clenched his teeth even harder, so hard his jaw hurt. "I know. I know."

Cartoon America ignored Colonel Reed, loud voice (since when had Alfred's voice been so _loud_?) carrying perfectly over the heads of the crowd. "Okay, so I've designed this really sweet attack plan called Attack Plan Alpha. You know, like Alpha Dog. Woof!" he barked.

Alfred let out a strangled groan and buried his face in his hands. "Someone please kill me now!" His face was burning with embarrassment, hot enough to light the room, and his gut churned. "God, this is…"

Cartoon America laughed, a loud, grating laugh that set Alfred's teeth on edge and made Japan clap his hands to his ears.

"AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHA!" the laughter dimmed and cartoon America squinted at somebody in the crowd. A look of puzzlement spread across his bespectacled face. "Why are you looking so pissed off, Iggy?"

"Who's Iggy?" Japan muttered. Alfred shrugged helplessly, eyes glued to the screen. What the cartoon America said next made Alfred's blood run cold.

"Are you still pissed off about the Revolutionary War thing?"

Colonel Reed grinned feebly, but everybody watching knew it was a weak effort. "ANP America, this is the twenty-first century…"

"Shut up, creepy old dude with the white hair, you don't know anything!"

Alfred lunged to his feet. "Alright, I've had enough, we have to stop this!"

"Remember where we are," Japan cautioned, laying gentle fingers on his arm. His eyes, in contrast, were hard. "Do you really want to go barging into a WORLD meeting with Colonel Reed out for your head? Besides…" his eyes swivelled to the computer screen. "I think he's doing something."

America turned back to the laptop, and his jaw dropped. Colonel Reed and the various attendants were wrestling cartoon America out from behind the lectern, while an enraged Iraq was being held back by several of his attendants.

"Idrukni!" he yelled. The Arabic words floated away to the ceiling, and Alfred saw Egypt and Syria wince and exchange glances. "Kalet…"

"Leave me alone!" America heard Dresden whisper. "You…"

"AHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHA!"

The cartoon America's laughter was loud and patronizing even as he was dragged outside and Colonel Reed slammed the door in his wake.

Then the crackling started.

The fuzzy view from the security camera flickered and grew blurry. America glanced at Japan, who looked worried. "What's with the video?"

Japan looked unnerved. "I don't know." He gingerly tapped the edge of the laptop screen with a finger, brow furrowing with frustration. "Come on..."

The picture shuddered, flickering and crackling, static interspersing the sound of Iraq's yelling like chips of ice dug into flesh and…

America's breath caught in his throat, and suddenly he remembered.

_A heart-stopping crack rent the air, and the room exploded into a million fragments. The ice that had infested the room lent its power, robbing every vestige of its last piece of heat, turning the watercolour-dark scene into a myriad of shattered shards… _

_Splinters of glass and grout sprayed across the floor… _

Japan stared at him, abandoning the screen. "America? Are you alright?"

But America's mind was far away, and his eyes were riveted to the flickering computer screen as the world flashed blue and black between his eyelids. The room seemed to be careening crazily, tilting like a camera off-focus, the lamps flickering and winking, casting elongated shadows up the walls that bled and collided with each other in a never-ending whirl of black and white and blue and green and yellow and…

Every single colour imaginable. He couldn't think of any names.

His skin was shuddering, crawling, as if something inside him was forcing his way out, and he rubbed at his arms...

_The stranger shuddered, flickering and crackling and fading in and out of focus like a bad projection. Black bled into yellow, white bled into red, and he was _caught,_ caught and clenched inside the frenzied, erratic beat of a strobe light…_

_The voice that sounded like England's but not carried over the screaming of the wind and the howling of the room as it splintered and shattered into a million pieces. _

"_Voulez-vous?" _

The world sprang back to him in a sucker-punch of colour and sound, and he reeled back.

"America? America!" Japan sounded panicked. "Are you alright?"

It was the last thing America heard before the darkness clapped a hand over his mouth and swept him away into nothingness.

**0110111001101111**

To be continued...

* * *

Notes:

You could definitely add **Inception **to the list of movies this fic resembles :P How did I go with writing the dream at the beginning of the chapter? I feel ridiculously proud of it. If it were personified, I'd send it flowers :3 In the meantime, I'll have to make do with printing it out and framing it *hangs up picture*

… that's a joke. I do that :P But still, I do feel proud of it.

On a side note, just how _do _you describe Pop-Tarts? o.O I didn't even know what they were until I began looking around for some examples of an American breakfast :P I've never tried them myself – I apologize for any discrepancies with the description.

Oh! Right, yes, I almost forgot. I guess this isn't really **Trivia Time, **but if anybody can put forward a few reasons as to why I've implied the relationship between America and Iraq is strained in this chapter, you'll be the recipient of a virtual cookie. It shouldn't be too hard. Hint: "…weapons of 'mass destruction'". *sarcasm*

*shudders* I guess this is what comes from watching **Michael Moore**'s **Fahrenheit 9/11**…

I don't really have much more to add, except thanks to all my reviewers and a request: if you've put this fic on your favourites list, please add more! Don't stop there! I'd love to hear why this humble fic has been granted such a privilege :) My thanks and virtual hugs to all of you.

xxxx

**Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated **(especially if you've favourited this :) )

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the aforementioned works.**


	5. A Burnt Chrysanthemum

**THE FAN INVESTIGATION**

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**A BURNT CHRYSANTHEMUM**

**warning: this chapter contains horrific imagery, and sensitive subject matter**

* * *

"_Back again so soon?" _

_Alfred was standing inside the strange yellow-walled room again. The coats of arms were glinting unpleasantly in the bloody light, putting America in mind of glistening entrails and making his stomach churn. His vision seemed to be flickering from colour to sepia, casting everything in a shaky, shivering tableau that seemed to wink in and out of focus. _

_He was standing there._

_The shakiness made the leather and chains clash and blur wildly, distorting in a single slew of colours like an artist's muddled palette. Alfred caught a faint impression of red-streaked blonde hair, green eyes, and a white grin with dagger-like teeth (a Cheshire cat? Alfred thought wildly). _

"_Where am I?" Alfred demanded. _

_The stranger lifted his lips slowly in a smile. "Where do you think you are?" _

_Alfred flung up his hands. "I don't know! This…" he faltered as the stranger's grin became forced, a glare. "This is a dream, right? I'm just dreaming…" _

_The stranger stepped close, his jade eyes blistering into Alfred's. "What do you think, Alfred? What do you want?"_

"_I don't know!" Alfred yelled. His voice ricocheted off the bulging yellow walls, rebounding onto the peeling painted ceiling, and the stranger's smile faltered. "You keep asking me what I want, but I don't know! What is it that I'm supposed to want?"_

_The stranger's lips moved. "What do you thi…"_

"_Argh!" Alfred yelled in frustration and whirled away, storming away to the furthest verges of the room. "That's it, I'm through with this." _

_From the corner of his eye, he saw the stranger frown, twitch… a second later, the stranger was standing directly in front of him and Alfred jerked back in response._

_ He hadn't even seen the guy move. _

"_Do you know what you want?" the stranger's voice rose to a roar dripping in darkness, filling and reverberating around the room – the bulging walls flickered and jumped spastically, wallpaper peeling and cracking before his eyes, like a sped-up reel of film shimmering with static and sepia. _

"_I don't know!" Alfred yelled over the noise. Almost without warning, the room began to spin – yellow walls blurring and clashing in a never-ending vortex of constantly gyrating colours, forcing Alfred to his knees at the sheer vertigo of it all. He squeezed his eyes shut; nausea was rising to his chest in a sickening wave. _

_The stranger's roar was a blistering scream. "Open your eyes! Face the world!" _

What the hell? _America thought wildly and strained to open his eyelids. Through his eyelashes, he saw the room had disintegrated into the same bland, inky darkness that had plagued his dreams the night before. The howl of the wind had stopped suddenly too; cautiously, America opened his eyes fully and stood up. His legs were unsteady beneath him; he staggered and nearly fell. _

"_What," came the voice from behind him, soft, and Alfred silently gathered his nerve, "do you want?" _

_America whirled around and lunged in the direction of the voice, hands outstretched for his throat. Rage and frustration was coursing through him, fuelling his anger in preparation to grab the stranger and shake him. His voice rose in a shriek: "What the hell does that mean?" _

_The stranger ghosted to one side as Alfred leapt at him, bearing down like a steam train; a long-fingered hand grabbed Alfred's wrist, using the momentum of to send the blonde American flying over the stranger's shoulder. All the breath exploded from Alfred's lungs in a painful gasp as he crashed to the ground; he was barely able to turn around before a black boot came down on his chest, pinning him to the floor. _

"_You always think before you act," the stranger mused contemplatively. His head cocked to one side, bleached spikes wilting somewhat. "Maybe we picked the wrong one…" _

"_Ugh…" America struggled. His breathing came in gasps. "This… this isn't a dream, is it?" _

_The stranger's smile was icy white. "What do you think?" _

_America lay still, his brain ticking. "Is… is this real?" he said after a while. "Or is this just happening in my head?" _

_The stranger's eyes narrowed, the dark eyeliner seeming to drown the irises in shadow. "Why on earth should this not be real just because it's inside your head?" _

_Alfred slumped back. "What? I don't understand." _

_The stranger's smile was bitter. "Never underestimate the power of the mind." _

_Alfred thought of the knowledge, and all the other functions that came as part of being an ANP. "I don't even know my own mind! How can I…" _

"_Exactly," the stranger's voice purred, velvet-like and Alfred stopped, bewildered. "You can't act for yourself, you don't have a choice. We keep trying to tell you…"_

"_We?" Alfred demanded. The shadows flickered darkly against the walls and a_ sound, _harsh and static, sprang to life.__ "Who's 'we'?"_

_The stranger leaned down and punched him._

_It was a fist, straight to the gut – the iron-tipped onslaught of a battering ram, and Alfred choked. His gaze fell to his chest, the point of impact, and…_

_Dark cracks were threading through his stomach like veins._

_ He jerked backwards as his stomach splintered, dividing into sections, the shirt and skin peeling back to reveal muscle and bone. His breath rose in a scream and…_

_The world exploded into a million scattered shards, and he was sent spinning headfirst into the blackness. The shards hung in air that rippled like water, pressing against his skin in a wash of flame, twirling and glittering and colliding and smashing and… _

_The stranger's smile gleamed in the darkness._

_Alfred tried to scream, but his words were scattered._

**0110111001101111**

_Pain. That was all America felt – a white-hot, all-consuming, never-ending wave. __He tried to think, but his thoughts were fried._

_Eventually the pain lessened, and he became aware… _

_Voices. _

"_Est-ce que ça prêt? __Il ne connaît pas…"_

"_It'll be fine," the accent, already bone-achingly familiar in its cockney harshness, sounded weary. "It'll work out sometime. We just have to wait until it's fixed."_

"_Tu dis ça, mais pouvez-vous connait? Je connais ils ne savent pas. __C'est dangereux, non? Le système…"_

"_What did I just say?" _

_Silence. A low mutter. _

"_Mais pouvez-vous dit ça…" _

_A laugh that sounded more like a forced cackle. "You're babbling. Shut up."_

_America tried to speak, but the pain hit him again like a solid-iron battering ram and he fell back down into blackness._

**0110111001101111**

"America…"

Soft fingers were stroking across his forehead, trailing wonderful paths of ice on his hot skin. He tried to tell whoever it was to stop, but his tongue felt thick and heavy. Those were the first signs that he wasn't dead, the thick tongue and the wonderful paths of ice. As if his desire had fluttered out his ear, the fingers stopped but the cold feeling remained. His tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth.

"Alfred-san? Are you alright?"

Japan's voice floated to the forefront of his consciousness, and Alfred blinked awake. "Ja-Kiku?"

"Oh good," Kiku smiled but it was contrived, a forced stretch of lips in the parody of a grin. "You're awake."

"Wha…" Alfred groaned, raising himself to a sitting position. "What happened to me?"

Japan's dark eyes blinked at him with something almost resembling sympathy. "You fainted. I'm sorry…"

America groaned and sat up, blinking blearily and touching fingers to his wounded head. His skull felt exceptionally tender in light of the recent onslaughts, and throbbed painfully when he touched it. He almost had a feeling that he had heard something – possibly even dreamt something – but the feeling, whatever it was, ducked down out of sight as soon as he tried to remember it.

Something… something about…

America looked up at Japan. "What does 'voulez-vous' mean?"

Kiku's expression turned befuddled, and slightly scared. Maybe he was having second thoughts about the seriousness of Alfred's head injury. "I don't know…" Japan made a small noise as America attempted to rise. "Are you okay?"

"I'll be fine." The throbbing in his head was fading fast now; ANPs could take a lot more pain that the average human before buckling, and it helped if he didn't move his head suddenly. The events of this morning flooded back to him in a wave, and Alfred bolted upright. His eyes searched the room for the laptop. "The WORLD meeting! What happened?"

Japan spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "I don't know. Before you fainted… I think the camera malfunctioned or something, because the screen's black now. I've tried getting back online, but…" Japan made an angry noise, fingers clenching into fists. "It isn't working. I'm sorry, America-san."

America rubbed his eyes. The blue strands tangled with his fingers; he blinked and shook them out of his face. "We need to figure out a plan." He muttered. A restless sort of energy had overtaken him, disabling his ability to sit still; the memory of what had transpired in the WORLD meeting made a wave of embarrassment rise to his cheeks in a hot flush. "What do we do now?"

Japan shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. We only have four more nights here, so…"

America's mind raced. Four nights. What could they accomplish in four nights? "Do we know what happened to the cartoon America after the meeting?"

"When your handler dragged him out?" Japan shook his head. "No. I assume he would have to be rehabilitated…"

America's stomach lurched. Rehabilitation was another addition the governments had included as a form of punishing an ANP who broke any of the Rules. Rehabilitation was generally exposure to various therapy as well as a subtle 're-conditioning', in an environment designed by the handlers that was similar to a correctional facility.

"Do you know where the American facility is?" Japan asked.

America rubbed his temples. "I think it's somewhere on Theodore Roosevelt Island. Why?" Dread churned through his stomach. "You're not thinking of actually _going_ there, are you?"

Japan shook his head. "I don't think that would be wise." The sun was setting through the window, staining the sky red. America wondered how long he'd been unconscious. "We need to gather more information about Hetalia."

America groaned as his mind flew unwittingly back to the pornography. "Do we really have to?"

Japan attempted a wan smile. "They can't _all_ be obscene, America." His expression hardened. "We have to figure out what Hetalia is, and gather information about it. Then maybe we can formulate some theories on how a cartoon comes to life, and how they found their way into…" realizing what he was saying, his shoulders slumped. All the energy seemed to drain out of his skinny frame; America was uncomfortably reminded Japan had stayed up all night. "This is insane."

America turned away from the window and sat down beside him, momentarily forgetting Hetalia. "Get some sleep, dude. You've been up all night."

Japan resisted, swaying slightly. "But we have to find out…"

"Hetalia isn't going anywhere." America jerked his head towards the red laptop perched on the coffee table. "How about I go and research while you get some sleep? We can tag-team it."

Japan blinked blearily. "Thank you very much." He bowed slightly and, yawning, made his way off to the bedroom. His previous position on the couch, apparently, had been forgotten.

America waited until he had gone before reaching up and cautiously exploring the back of his head with his fingers. He winced as he felt a large, protruding bump on the base of his skull and quickly dropped his hand.

Standing up produced a whirl of vertigo; downing a handful of aspirin he found in one of the hotel cupboards helped. With a heavy sigh, America sat down on the couch and pulled the laptop close towards him.

"Here we go…"

**0110111001101111**

2nd August, 1945

The scratching of a marker filled the caustic silence of the room.

_Inside the empire_

_It is the end of the world _

_Darkened clouds abound._

The pitch-black ink stilled against skin. Pale fingers spread out along the wall, graceful and angled like a fan, and a head full of glossy black hair tilted sideways.

"Good morning, ANP Japan." The pleasant voice only strengthened his resolve to stay in place.

"Morning, Hamato."

She shut the door behind her, not flinching despite the crunch and snap of several automatic locks sliding into place. The ANP's exhalation of complaint was sinister in the freezing cold room, a hoarse rasp of exhaled air as she flicked on the light without his permission. She did it every afternoon, and his complaints about the sudden transition from dim to blinding had long petered out when he realized Dr Hamato wouldn't be dissuaded.

Frankly, she almost preferred complaints. The menacing air did nothing to help her work. She felt herself stiffen, as she always did at the sight of the ANP, and forced herself to remain calm.

He was sprawled out in the small plastic chair, one leg hooked almost lazily over one armrest as he sprawled back, dark eyes fixed on the ceiling. The position radiated an almost sardonic air, a black felt-tip pen lying idle in between the fingers of his right hand. The harsh light flung every line of his body into high, crystal-clear relief; sprawling there in the chair, every muscle rigid in tension as though he was about to burst from the chair at any moment, he looked like a tiger crouched in readiness.

She felt her breath catch, and swallowed. "H-how are you feeling today?" Dr Hamato called as she wended her way past the low hospital bed towards the far wall.

"Hamato Sakura, I'm bored."

ANP Japan liked to call everybody by their full names. Once upon a time, Hamato had thought it was simply to be polite, but now she believed it served a different purpose. He knew everybody's true names, knew every iota of their personalities without asking. Because of that, he had power over them. If he called them, they had to respond. If he asked them to do something, they had to do it.

It was not for nothing he had been the Empire of Japan.

ANP Japan had come into rehabilitation cold and angry, filled with turmoil and the frenzied, constricted thoughts of a population lashed by tragedy and war. The Japanese government had decided, for his own safety and to bolster his clearly failing mental health, the ANP of Japan had to be kept in isolation until the end of the war. All the records displayed evidence of ANP Japan's various deeds, the deaths, the threats, the chaos, the confusion. But then there were those suicidal outbursts, and the months of sleeplessness…

"You look unwell." She said finally, hands sliding over the knees of her uniform as she went to crouch beside him. "Haven't you been sleeping again?"

The ANP did not look at her, but his dark eyes were smoky, and the dark rings curving beneath them stood out stark against his pale skin.

"I fall down asleep. Memories return as wounds. In the valley of mind." He did not elaborate, and Dr Hamato was almost afraid to read the uneven kanji scrawled on the ANP's left forearm. He seemed to have no aversion to nearly poisoning himself with ink. The medical staff had treated him to various prescription drugs four times this week.

"Have you been having nightmares again?" Hamato inquired. He did not answer and, giving up, she sighed. "Please, ANP Japan, would you just consider writing on paper? The medicine we gave you…"

"It is working well. Tell the nurses I am glad." He murmured softly. The marker moved, scrawling something in long, brazen slashes against the crook of his elbow. "And stop bringing paper."

Dr Hamato dared to ask. "Why do you write on yourself? Writing something down on paper does not mean a person's work is inferior." Dr Hamato intended to sound comforting, but in the big, barren room, the words sounded pathetic and harsh.

The room was silent for a long moment. Dr Hamato was almost afraid to elaborate; afraid of what reaction might come out of that brooding silence that now hovered around the ANP.

ANP Japan finally raised his head, long dark hair falling to conceal his bone-pale cheeks. The man's hair had grown out in the time he had spent in rehabilitation; he looked almost bishōnen. A nervous, irrational giggle rose in Dr Hamato's throat; she swallowed it down and waited apprehensively for Japan to respond.

Japan twirled a lock of hair around a single long finger as he continued, voice permeating over the rasp of the marker. "Inked onto my skin. Is self-punishment for me. It isn't otherwise."

Dr Hamato bit her lip. "Does it seem less of a punishment to write it down on paper?"

A bitter laugh ran through the room, Japan's slim, toned chest shaking from the effort. "Inflicting harm on me. Is a fitting punishment. For causing others pain." A slim, long-fingered hand rose almost unconsciously to close around his left bicep, fingers hiding the dark letters as they squeezed. "I'm losing free skin." Another laugh, quiet but harsh. "Here, I am such a coward. Wouldn't you agree?"

Dr Hamato was lost for words.

"R-running out of skin to write on doesn't mean you're a coward, ANP Japan." Dr Hamato answered, vying for some semblance of comfort to banish the vast coldness that seemed to cling to her patient like a perpetual aura. She leant forward, clasping his shoulder in her hand, green lace sliding against the black linen of his shirt.

ANP Japan looked amused. He did not flinch from her touch; rather, it was her that flinched away from the look on his face, burning like the flames flickering in the depths of his deep, dark eyes, her hand leaving the black fabric as she sat back on her heels.

ANP Japan's next words were quiet, veins of bitterness running through them. "If not a coward. Then I am certainly dead. The one I thought a guard…" He stopped then, lips pressing shut tight. His head cocked, eyes flickering to a point somewhere in the middle distance, seeing something Dr Hamato felt certain wasn't in the room. His lips moved before stilling so quickly she couldn't be sure whether he had opened his mouth to begin with.

"Do you mean…" she hesitated. In light of recent political events, it seemed almost indecent to bring it up, but she dove ahead in a sudden surge of recklessness. "Do you mean the ANP of the United States?"

Japan stiffened, something dark flickering in the background of those eyes like a plague ship riding a stormy sea before it sank.

Japan knew they had paid attention. He knew they had copied every word off his skin, every sin etched in black ink, everything he had ever told them. He knew his handler had told them when he had brought him to the rehabilitation facility, reciting Japan's litany of destructiveness with a voice that displayed nothing but uneasy displeasure. Dr Hamato knew ANP Japan knew; she could tell by the subtle darkening of his eyes, the way the black marker twitched spastically in his hands.

Seeing he wasn't about to respond, Dr Hamato settled down in the hospital chair, idly playing with a loose thread trailing from her sleeve. From her seat, the ANP of Japan looked especially desolate. He was around average height, thin, and bone-pale from spending too much time trapped inside the dimness of the room. The tiny black letters spidering up his arms, legs, hands and feet were far too bright against his deathly white skin, like chains of caustic wounds.

In some way, it looked disturbing, the blackness tainting Japan's pale skin. Even when they washed it off, occasionally a faint dark hue would remain.

"The darkness is pure. I cannot wash it off me. It will remain here." Japan murmured, knowing what she was thinking, and Dr Hamato barely controlled the faint shiver the thought gave her. Japan's writing would only serve as a reminder of the tragedy and war, and all the injustices committed in his time as an empire; in a way, it was a most fitting form of self-punishment.

Dr Hamato stood up. The only sign Japan had registered her abrupt movement was the small pause in his writing, before the marker returned to its dedicated scrawling, traversing up his left arm.

"H-Hamato Sasuke?" Japan's voice trembled through the whiteness, and Dr Hamato turned around.

"Yes, Japan?"

Japan's desolate eyes burned into hers, so dark and swimming in misery it nearly made her heart choke. Words suddenly spilled from his lips in an unceasing torrent, dark and cold and drowning. He spoke quickly, slashing the marker against his arm, coating his skin in dark stripes as his voice reached a gabbled keen. "The Americans believe they are better than us. We are unable to keep a steady relationship with them as long as they hold these opinions. The Americans are not complying with our demands… for these reasons, our relationship is constricted, shall remain that way and will not be able to grow."

And, looking into his eyes, Dr Hamato almost believed him.

**0110111001101111**

6th August, 1945

Japan wasn't sure how much longer he was going to be able to live. He was convinced he was dying, in the most gruesome way possible because it was impossible, nobody could be feeling like this, nobody could possibly feel anything like this and not be dying. His heart was racing, almost seeming to palpitate in his chest, oxygen was just out of reach, the insane rate of his heart and breathing were the only two things he was aware of, he could see nothing, his mind was locked, tuned, disconnected, ignoring everything else around him except the sounds. Those

High.

Frantic.

Desperate.

Sounds.

He couldn't remember how or when it had started. One moment he was writing, the next, a noise, a flicker, a spoken word, damn if he can remember the trigger, and he's on the ground, eyes twitching as they stare, locked onto some point in space, body seized in never-ending trembling, hands clutching his head like it was going to explode if he couldn't hold it together, fingernails embedding crescents on his skull, and his mind was a dark, twisted place now.

His mind was a disturbed, fucked up thing, a nightmarish, hellish place, already a nightmare in itself, one that a person would never wish upon the other if they had anything like a soul, and he was squeezing his eyes shut and burying himself in blackness but that only made things worse, and he pulled his knees close to his chest and curled in a ball but that didn't stop, please, please make it stop, god, God, please, please, please…

Funny how you felt most alive when you were dying and he _was_ dying, he was dying slowly and painfully. There was no escape, he was too far gone to be saved, he wanted to run, to flee, to escape, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to run, and the pain was just too much, it split and tore every part of his mental being into tiny little threads.

Through it came whispered words, whispered words of the knowledge filtering through over his people's thoughts, and Japan was suddenly sure.

"Hiroshima, no… everything is never safe…. oh please, someone, please…" A scream managed to squeeze through his constricted throat, echoing out into the darkness over the sounds of his people yelling in pain and fear and anger and distress, and it all sounded hoarse and static and clashed horribly, not that anyone would hear… and the darkness made his head spin and his skull pound and his gaze refused to fall on anything that would give him light and make him feel less alone. It constricted his breathing, sticking fingers down his throat, ripping his heart from his chest and suffocating him under smothering waves and swallowing him and tearing and ripping and binding…

He screamed.

Blood exploded past his teeth and onto the floor, staining and blotching the pristine whiteness and oh why did it have to be so white, it was making his eyes hurt, as vision and acuity sprang back to him in a sucker punch that had him reeling back in a turmoil, and he couldn't breathe and...

Arms suddenly closed around him and he screamed and thrashed, trying to throw them off…

"ANP Japan!" Dr Hamato's voice sounded, somewhere back in the dark recesses of his mind but his body didn't recognize the touch, the touch of her coarse uniform and his fingers clenched down on her wrists, and it was _hard, _hard enough to bruise, hard enough to leave blotches of purple staining western peach skin and his nails dug in and he couldn't think, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't see, and his chest was hurting, hurting and bleeding, bleeding hard enough to flood his windpipe and make him cough hard, sticky blood all over the floor…

His fingers clenched down and released, leaving Dr Hamato's arms scarred by purple and red blotches but she didn't care. And her arms were looping around him and hugging him tight, and she was crying, crying hard, wet tears into his hair, and he could feel her body shaking…

"ANP Japan, Hi… Hiroshima's just been bombed, but it will be alright, everything's alright…"

Something.

Hit.

_Hard_.

Japan screamed and whirled away, ripping himself free...

"Japan!"

He vomited.

"Japan…" Arms were around him again, soft and warm, and Japan sagged back, because he couldn't see, he couldn't feel anything but the never-ending pull of the… of the…

His thoughts disintegrated, and he fell back into blackness.

**0110111001101111**

23rd August, 1945

When Hamato saw him next, he was still, silent, his knees drawn up to his chest as he stared into space. The marker was capped on the floor, the skinny plastic body looking pathetically lost and desolate on the expanse of white floor, and the room seemed colder than ever before. Black kanji spiralled along ANP Japan's skin, but the characters now looked jerky, faint – Japan had insisted on continuing writing, even though his limbs were trembling. Dark, bruise-like shadows underlined his eyes, and his skin seemed too white and paper-thin, stretching over the harsh angles of his face and hollowing his cheeks.

She sat down beside him. "Are you okay?" she ventured timidly.

A choked laugh passed his lips. "No. I'm not okay."

Dr Hamato made to put her arm around him, saw the fierce glare he shot her, thought better of it, and left her arm by her side.

They sat in silence for several seconds before Japan burst out, marker flying half-way across the room as he swatted at it with a wild, blind hand. "I hate them with all my heart!"

Dr Hamato didn't need to ask who he was referring to. "I'm so sorry."

A choked laugh. "No, you aren't sorry. You don't know what I've been through." His eyes slid sideways.

Dr Hamato exhaled. Her breath erupted into the air in a shaky blast of steam. "I can imagine." She patted his shoulder, striving for comfort. He stiffened, muscles tensing as he shifted away. "I'm so sorry. I saw you, you were hurting so much, I…" She couldn't find the words to describe what she had felt, what she had seen while Japan lay immobilized in pain. "You seemed to _know_… can ANPs read minds?"

His sneer broadened. "That's one idea." His gaze drifted back to his arm, and the marker, collected from the floor, picked up pace again, the black stark against pale skin. Outside the window, a bird piped a tune to the smothering heat.

"Do people still grieve for me?" he murmured, head bowed over his arm with a desolateness that did not match the tension in the rest of his body.

Dr Hamato swallowed, the words sticking at the base of her throat. "Some…" she saw no point in sugarcoating it. "Some people actually think it's the beginning of a new age."

ANP Japan's head bowed even further, breathing coming out as rasps as he scribbled.

"I... I don't like it. It's too… it feels so wrong now."

Japan looked up then, lips forming a sneer. "Not for a long time." With that cryptic comment, he turned back to his arm again, the letters spiralling around his wrist and up his forearm to join the multitude of already written words.

Dr Hamato stood up and made for the door.

"Where are you going?" he murmured. Dr Hamato didn't like the tone of his voice; it was too knowing, too mocking; like he already knew and also knew of something unpleasant that would occur the instant she stepped out.

"Back to my office. I shall expect you there this afternoon at the usual time," Dr Hamato answered, torn between sounding firm or friendly.

"Goodbye," Japan murmured. His voice sounded sad, distant.

It occurred to her as she shut the door that nobody had told Japan the war had ended yet.

**0110111001101111**

25th August, 1945

It hit him suddenly, like a wall of unintelligible screaming—a shriek growing higher, louder, loud enough to burst— and Japan sat up in bed at 2:47 AM and listened to what sounded like a distant, faraway voice, calling, calling…

The room smelled like jet fuel and ammonia.

Japan drew a rattling breath, so cold it stung his gums and burrowed between his teeth. Sliding upright from the chair (_it was as_ _cold as frost forming, the push of the air against his skin)_, he traced the tiled floor with cautious feet. Edging over to the window, the iciness burning his soles, the dull shine from the Tokyo city lights painted ghostly slats of colour over his face.

They might as well have been steel bars.

Suddenly, the sense of being trapped kissed the nape of his neck, smiled behind his eyelids, slid delicate fingers down his arms, his hands, every frozen knuckle of his fingers.

_Everything you are_ (not), _everything you are_ (not) _will always be…here where there is no one._

Except it was another voice— the Axis? The Allies? _Who_?—whispering those words into his ears.

_To find yourself in _ seeking this _ in a prison, surrounded by our _. _

The feeling of his legs turned to lead suddenly pinned him where he stood – a living statue, a butterfly on a pin _(his distorted, struggling self)_ shackled to something indeterminable, holding him in place.

Like a silent, invisible apocalypse, Japan felt the world collapse in several places: the top spinning independent of its middle, the bottom disconnecting and floating away…

_In this way…_

The white walls buckled, spun, turned the black ink into a hurricane, into-

_This way, you can't… _

Lives are not perpetual – ANPs knew that better than anyone. Around, around, turning, the air drawing thinner every revolution, his words a Mobius strip of black…

The world slowed to one lethargic turn that narrowed down to a single room, a single tile… and the drifting shook the world where he stood, and sent it reeling on its side.

It wasn't claustrophobia, it was—_no one to hear you_—the way he couldn't move, not forward. No choice—_he who understands nothing_—not sure if there ever was—_can know nothing_—a purpose.

Japan kept thinking until he no longer felt the rehabilitation facility creeping under his skin, until he remembered what the bombs had felt like, until he remembered what the clouds (clouds?) had made of, had thought of, had dreamt of flying…

And when the spell of urgency (_not insanity not insanity_) had passed completely, Japan took the black marker off the windowsill, turned his back on the bars of the blinds, and settled on the icy floor of the room.

The tip of the marker pressed against the skin, marking a pool of dark and a low ache (_like blood drying on the dull grey floor of camps_) and he pressed down harder.

For a moment, the words wouldn't come, and then, in a rush, the pen darted across skin of its own accord.

_Sleep was not easy_

___But I still lay wake_

_Sky reflects the demon eyes_

And then, marker pressing into his wrist so hard it hurt, scarring a jagged line of black...

_Night cloaks the valleys_

_Of my vast, imprisoned mind_

_Stagnant in its sleep_

And, despite what he had told Dr Hamato, he knew _this_ was why he wrote: to cover himself with layers and layers of worlds.

Escapism had never before seemed so attractive a concept.

**0110111001101111**

* * *

Notes:

My sincere respects and consolations to all those who have relatives who died in WWII. A moment of silence, please, for all the people who died in the Nagasaki and Hiroshima bombings.

…

…

心よりお悔やみ申し上げます

The main raison d'etre for this chapter is purely character development for Japan, as I feel his personality hasn't really been explored as much yet (plus, I rather like writing steam-of-consciousness :P ) Another reason is: I'm putting off writing anything dealing with the characters finding out about Hetalia, simply because I'm not sure how to portray it. What do you think, should I deliberately reference particularly… ahem, _poor_ Hetalia fan works (KBSM, etc.), or should I leave it vague to avoid offence? Let me know, I'm worried.

**Trivia Time**: The way Japan was speaking in the flashbacks is based off a particular style of Japanese poetry. What style of poetry is it? Hint: count the syllables of every sentence.

Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated, especially if you have this story on your favourites list. :)


	6. Flight To A Head

**THE FAN INVESTIGATION**

**CHAPTER SIX**

**FLIGHT TO A HEAD**

* * *

As he sat and typed, Alfred noticed idly that the sound of his fingers running along the keys seemed to fill the room. The sitting room seemed abnormally still and silent, pale, wavering shadows writhing up the walls to grapple cheerfully with sunlight. The digital clock perched on top of the bookshelf glowed red, radioactive numerals burning 11:31; America had been researching for nearly two hours.

America dipped his head towards the laptop's screen and glared at the fanart shining coyly under his nose. Every foray into the Hetalia fandom seemed only to increase his dislike for it. Granted, he had only really looked at fanart, and he was beginning to get sick of the countless bespectacled Americas parading underneath his nose. And the glasses were supposed to represent Texas? How the hell did that work?

America closed the website, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. Nobody seemed to have made the connection between the ANPs and Hetalia yet – how could they, none of the public knew about them. It was a strange, twisted sort of logic, America reflected, that the very people they represented knew nothing about the ANPs. Alfred knew none of his handlers would bother themselves with looking up bizarre webcomics to find an eerie parallel between Hetalia and their beloved charges; it wasn't _seemly_ for government officials.

While researching, America had also taken the chance to scour various police sites for any news of the car chase through Washington. Seeing the commotion they had caused, America suddenly realized just how clever Japan's tactic had been: the chase seemed to have had successfully distracted the police (and, hopefully by extension, his handlers), from the mysterious case of the blue-haired thief who had broken into ANP America's house.

"Damn, Japan's smart," America whispered.

He wondered vaguely what had happened to the cartoon America. With a prickle of dread, he remembered his time in rehabilitation on Rhode Island – dumped there just after the Vietnam War when his government found him in the midst of an Anti-Vietnam War protest march, America had no desire to repeat the experience. He had been there before, of course, more times that he could remember: the emergence of punk-rock, 9/11, anti-Iraq and Vietnam protests, the suffragettes, the racism in the southern states, the Boston bombings. The psychiatrists there were the best in the US, and paid a healthy sum for their services and silence, their combined efforts making quick work of smoothing his mind back into placidity.

What memories remained were tangled and filled with nightmares.

Alfred wondered darkly if the psychiatric assistance would work with the cartoon America. Who knew with people from other worlds?

In a way, he almost felt _glad _that the cartoon America had been locked up. Alfred had been mortified by the catastrophe of the WORLD meeting – now, with the cartoon America detained, there was no chance of him messing anything else up. The handlers would devise a system of upholding the laws while the cartoon America was detained; he wouldn't be missed. But what would the rehabilitation do to him? America felt his stomach plummet in sudden fright. What were the consequences of having two Americas, seemingly two ANPs, in the same world? How the hell had that happened, anyway? America only had Japan's word that the cartoon America was from another world; the Hetalia world, apparently. But wasn't Hetalia just a webcomic? How did other worlds work, anyway? How did the Hetalia world work? And if they were ANPs, wouldn't they _know _about the existence of other worlds? Was that how the cartoon America had ended up in this world? America yanked his hands through his hair in frustration. So many questions and not enough answers, but how would they be able know what's going on? The only way was to get to the bottom of what Hetalia was all about, but sitting at the computer seemed to be achieving nothing but frustration. Preferably, they had to be right in the middle of it…

The Google homepage blinked invitingly in front of his nose, and suddenly America had an idea, the concept firing into his brain like a fork of lighting.

**Hetalia **Then, on an impulse: **conventi – **

a sudden prickling feeling seemed to crawl onto America's shoulders, raising the hairs at the back of his neck and releasing a long, slow shudder…

time seemed to slow to a crawl, the world freezing as if a pause button had been hit and in that moment his sight seemed to narrow to the search bar and revolve around that single, slender rectangle…

America blinked, and shook himself. "Weird." He muttered. His hands hovered uncertainly over the keyboard, fingers brushing the white lettering. "Somebody must've walked on my grave or something…"

**- on. **

What appeared next made him blink in surprise.

**Hetalia to appear at AnimeCon! **The majority of the results screamed. Anything more subdued or comprehensible than that seemed to be non-existent.

"Hey."

America swivelled in his seat. Japan was standing in the doorway, with the dishevelled hair and clothes of somebody who has just woken up.

"Hey," America answered as Japan wandered into the room, yawning. "Good sleep?"

"Rubbish." Japan walked over to the kitchen, opening cupboards at random with the type of fevered intensity coffee addicts think nothing of. "I had nightmares."

America blinked in sympathy. "Sorry, dude."

"That's alright." Japan waved a hand distractedly. "I'm awake now. What about you? How did the research go?"

"Er…" America frowned at the screen, feeling slightly overwhelmed by the sudden barrage of questions. "Well, not so good, but I did find this." He indicated the screen. "Apparently Hetalia's gonna be featured at AnimeCon this year."

"AnimeCon?" Japan blinked, hand halfway extended to the coffee machine. His eyes narrowed. "Why's that important?"

Maybe it was Japan's unexpected arrival after two hours alone, but America found himself rapidly growing defensive, almost like a pupil babbling an excuse to the teacher. "It's not much, but I just thought it would be interesting, since, you know, we need to find out more about Hetalia and I thought visiting a convention would be a good way to… I dunno, interact with the fans or something..." Conviction suddenly rose to his chest and he added, voice growing stronger. "Plus, a second opinion's always good, isn't it? We can get a first-hand account."

Japan's eyes narrowed thoughtfully; he looked almost impressed. "That's a good idea." He absently put down the mug he had reached for and walked around the kitchen counter to America's position on the sofa. "Where's it being held?"

America squinted at the screen. "B…"

His voice died.

Japan noticed the change in tone and his voice grew wary. "What is it?

America swallowed. His hand trembled as he raked a hand through his hair – the blue strands almost comforted him, a quick reminder that he was, for all intents and purposes, dead, free, unrestricted. _Calm down. It was ages ago – you don't need to get all angsty about it now. Calm down. _

"It's in Boston." His tone was as flat as a pane of glass.

Japan's shoulders stiffened. "A-America-san…" he seemed at loss for words. "I'm sorry."

America exhaled and made some rapid mental calculations, trying to take his mind off it. "It takes about a day to drive there from Washington DC."

Japan rubbed his temples, realized what he was missing, and dashed back around the counter again to the coffee machine. "How exactly are we going to get there with no car?" he asked over the clunks and roaring of the machine starting up.

America eyed the coffee machine apprehensively. "We could always fly there."

Japan's eyelid twitched nervously. "How much does that cost?"

Maybe it was due to the constant questions, but America felt tension begin to rise. "I don't know, how much do you have?"

Japan bit his lip. "I have about a thousand yen on me at the moment, I need to change it over, but I could always get some American dollars…"

America felt himself relax. "A thousand should cover it. That'll be fine."

Japan ran his hand through his hair, racking it up in disarrayed black spikes. "What will happen on the plane?" He seemed twitchy, drumming his nails against the handle of the coffee cup with a cascade of clicks. "Will we be recognized? I have lots of laptops and cables, won't they be taken away when I go through the metal detector? Will one of the handlers be there? Will…" just when America was about to feel seriously overwhelmed, Japan clapped a hand to his forehead with a deafening shriek, "No!"

"What?" America panicked. "What is it?"

Japan whipped around. "The latest meeting was held in Washington DC, right? Lots of ANPs gathered for it?"

America nodded furiously, mind working but finding nothing. "Yeah, so what?"

"So they'll be at the airport!" Japan dragged his fingers down his cheeks, leaving long white streaks – he looked slightly deranged. "They'll recognize us! They'll all be…"

America grabbed the panicked ANP around the shoulders, not wanting to hear any more. "Kiku! Calm down!"

Japan twitched, thin shoulders trembling, and the black fire in his eyes slowly went out.

"There's more than one airport in Washington DC," Alfred spoke slowly, gently, trying to contrast with Japan's previous babbling. "They won't all get on the same plane: remember how the handlers make us get on separate ones in case of crashes? And anyway, they won't get on at the public airport, can you imagine the shock that would cause? They'd probably get on private jets. It's not…" he searched for the right words; Japan looked like a deer in the headlights, "It's not like the Rules. We're on our own now, we're free, we don't have any of those rules now." Japan was trembling, bruise-shadows under his eyes, and a sudden suspicion gripped him. "You didn't sleep, did you?"

Japan exhaled shakily. "N..." Words seemed to fail him and he sagged, extricating himself from America's grip. He inhaled and straightened up out of his hunched position. "I'm sorry, America-san."

America stepped backwards, raising hands. "That's fine, dude, that's fine." His eyes narrowed. "Just get some sleep on the plane, alright? Not enough sleep can't be good for you."

Japan heaved a sigh that sounded to America almost unnecessarily melancholic, casting his eyes around the chaos of the room. "I guess I'd better start packing if we're going to make it to Boston." He walked back to the counter, drained the long-awaited coffee in one slow draught, and added "The security camera hasn't fixed itself, has it?"

America shook his head. Thinking that the camera might come back online, he'd kept the window minimized while he'd trawled the Web searching for answers, but the periodic checking had revealed nothing but a black screen and the buzz of static. "No, nothing. Guess we won't be able to hack into any more government databases, will we?"

Japan shook his head, black hair falling into his eyes as he leant to yank a plug out of its socket. "Even if I could, I probably shouldn't – there's always a chance I've been discovered and the handlers have shut down all the databases in defence."

Fear crawled through Alfred's chest. "Is it…" he swallowed and started again, kneeling to help Japan with the cables. "Is it likely that you've been discovered, though?"

Japan's eyes darkened. "I don't know, but it's a definite possibility."

Feeling measurably more unsettled and possibly even more at loss as to what they could do to make sense of recent events, Alfred dropped to his knees and began gathering the cables.

Reducing the sizeable mess to a more manageable one took the better half of an hour. While America struggled to fit all of Japan's computers into the one bag and wondered how he did it, Japan himself booked the flight online.

"America?"

The trepidation in Japan's voice made America turn around. "Yeah?"

Japan's eyes never left the computer screen, tension lending his voice a hard edge. "Boston AnimeCon ends on the 25th."

"The 25th…" America made some rapid mental calculations. "But it's the 25th today!"

"Exactly." Japan's voice was bleak.

"What _time _does it end?" America demanded, abandoning the bag and striding over to where the Asian ANP sat on the end of the couch.

Japan chewed his lip pensively as he scanned the screen. His shoulders slumped. "No, it's fine, it ends at around 10:00 at night."

"Ten o'clock at night?" America repeated incredulously. "Just what exactly goes _on _at anime conventions?"

"Depends on what activities they have there." Japan's finger poised above the mouse. "Shall I book our flight?"

America nodded gratefully. "That would be great, thanks."

It took roughly another hour to get everything packed and the room back to its original pristine glory. None of the people lingering in the hotel lobby took any notice as Alfred and Kiku came through the lift doors, although America did catch more than one glance at his blue hair.

Kiku walked over to the reception desk, hoisting a fake smile onto his face and hiding himself behind his impeccable put-on New York accent. "Hi, we're here to check out, please."

The receptionist raised an eyebrow. He was perilously close to a unibrow – America wondered if anyone had ever tried to hold him down and administer a good plucking to the caterpillar crawling across his forehead. He doubted it. "What room were you guys in?

"Room 409." Japan reached into his pocket for one of his seemingly numerous wallets. "Could you be quick, please? We're in a bit of a hurry to catch a flight."

A flash of irritation entered the receptionist's eyes, but he made no comment. "If I could just have your names, please?" He asked, typing something into his computer.

America felt panic rise. Granted, the handlers didn't know their aliases, and as far as he knew there was no way they'd know to look for them at all, let alone in some hotel records, but you never could be sure what the government did or didn't know…

Or maybe he'd just been hearing too many conspiracy theories.

"Ah…" Japan paused for the briefest of moments, eyes momentarily fleeing around the hotel room before settling back on the receptionist's face. "My name is… Kiku Honda." The last words were almost murmured. America caught the tension in his jaw as his gaze flicked around the lobby and resolved to question him about it later.

Alfred stepped forward. "And I'm Alfred F. Jones."

The receptionist nodded, tongue protruding slightly from his teeth as he typed something in. "Alright, that will be…" His shoulders slumped and he turned back to them. "I'm terribly sorry," his tone indicated he was anything but, "but we've only just upgraded to a new system…"

_Something_, something almost intangible, something intangible and strange-feeling and foreign, swept over Alfred in a palpable wave, icy cold and raising the hairs on the back of his arms. In the midst of the sudden coldness that seemed to have blasted him, his head felt like a furnace, hot and throbbing.

His skull twinged, and Alfred grunted, lifting a hand to gentle it.

"Sorry," he muttered in response to Kiku and the receptionist's questioning glances.

The receptionist coughed dryly. "As I was saying, we've only recently upgraded to a new system, and the computers haven't gotten online just yet. I'm afraid we only accept cash at this point in time."

And, just like that, the prickling feeling was gone.

Kiku handed over the required amount (Alfred tried not to goggle at the wad of notes), and the receptionist's eyes widened slightly.

"Thank you sir," his manner became noticeably more deferential. "I hope you had a pleasant stay."

Kiku smiled tightly. "Thank you, it was most enjoyable. Come on, Alfred."

"Dude, are you some sort of millionaire or something?" Alfred gasped as he ran after him – Japan's strides were long, and he practically glided across the elegant tiling as if fearing something would attack him.

Kiku looked smug despite his nervousness. "Technically, all ANPs are."

"I know that, but…" Somebody slammed hard into his shoulder and Alfred stumbled, barely regaining his balance before whipping around. "Hey, watch it!"

The person who had walked into him grinned. Alfred's eyes took in the long black coat, the bleached white hair standing up in frenzied spikes laced with blood-red, the silver winking at his lips and nose, before he leant closer.

The drawl of his breath was rasping, dark, foreign – and yet somehow _familiar_.

Something in America's head pounded.

"_Voulez-vous?"_ the man whispered, and his voice clutched the echoes of a dark, yellow room as he turned and melted back into the crowd.

_And the stars kept turning…_

"What is it?" Japan's voice asked, snapping America back into attentiveness.

America whirled around. "Some idiot tried to knock me over!"

"Really?" Japan's bottomless eyes blinked once and squinted behind his glasses, analysing the crowd. "I didn't see anyone."

America stared at him. "You didn't see him?"

Japan shook his head. "No."

Alfred shook himself. He felt slightly disoriented, dizzy, but he decided to put that aside in favour of more pressing matters. "Doesn't matter anyway, he's gone now. How are we getting to the airport? Just by taxi, or something?"

Kiku nodded as they exited through the automatic doors. The rattle of glass panes against their runners sounded almost cantankerous. "I thought so, yeah. Is that a problem?"

America shook his head. "No." Now that they had checked out of the hotel room, their meagre possessions became all the more clear to America; he stared at the only luggage they carried, a duffle bag bouncing on Japan's shoulder. "I think we might need to get some more supplies, dude. Haven't you got any clothes or anything?"

Kiku looked suitably chagrined. "Well, we've got the clothes on…" His shoulders slumped. "I tell you what, we'll call the taxi, fly to Boston, and while we're there, we'll go get clothes and stuff, how does that sound?" his voice had the condescending tone America had long come to recognize as a sign Japan was getting stressed; he raised his hands.

"That sounds cool to me, dude."

The street just outside the hotel conveniently sported an abundance of taxis, trundling along the narrow strip of asphalt to deliver their passengers to and from their destinations. Kiku flagged one down and the taxi shot forward to meet them with almost dangerous enthusiasm, nearly colliding with the car in front.

As Alfred settled into the back seat and pulled the door shut, he caught a strong whiff of chicken curry. An abandoned takeout container sat between the seats, dripping yellow sauce. Alfred swallowed as Kiku gave the driver the address, and tried to take as few breaths as possible.

"That's disgusting." Kiku whispered, nodding at the container.

Alfred nodded vigorously. "Tell me about it." His head was promptly slammed into the back seat as the taxi took off. The driver (Jack O'Farrel, general deadbeat, it was useful to have the knowledge sometimes) was spinning the wheel like a DJ running turntables – either he had no idea where he was going and wanted to compensate, or he was a sadist and enjoyed making his passengers suffer from motion sickness. It wasn't even ten minutes into the journey, and already Kiku looked faintly green.

"You alright, dude?" America asked in concern. Kiku nodded and closed his eyes, evidently not trusting himself to speak.

To make matters worse, right in the middle of a crowded intersection, just when America's brain felt as though it was suffering epilepsy from the force of the taxi's vibrations, Jack suddenly rolled down the window and stuck his head out. Kiku stared in wide-eyed horror as he launched a virtual hurricane of angry words in a language Alfred didn't understand at a pedestrian crossing the street.

"Est-ce que ça prêt ? Il ne connaît pas!"

America's breath caught in his throat. The world seemed to have distilled itself into a haze of shuddering taxi interiors and low aching from his head and, over the constant whine of the engine, he thought he could almost hear… no, he amended the statement. Hear wasn't the right word – it was more of a feeling, an intangible feeling, akin to déjà vu rolling across his skin and raising his shoulders stiffly high.

He had the strangest feeling he had heard those words before.

Thoughts chased themselves in a fruitless circle at the back of his mind, all 'what' and 'why' and 'how', and none of them seeming conductive to an answer.

It was probably nothing, America thought as he leant back against the seat and tried not to laugh at Japan's horrified expression. There were tons of expats in the US, all with their own foreign languages, and some of the words must have bound to have slipped into his brain, jettisoned by the knowledge…

He spoke English and Spanish fluently, but he had never actively thought to look for other languages before.

With a little thought, he almost found them, lurking in the back of his head where the voices of his people murmured beneath an endless shroud of meditative calm and discipline…

"Tu dis ça, mais pouvez-vous connait? Je connais ils ne savent pas. C'est dangereux, non ? Le système…"

Japan was staring at him. "Alfred, what are you doing?"

With a jolt, America realized he was whispering the words aloud, infusing the interior of the taxi with a faint rush of delicate breath and consonants. He blinked, startled out of his reverie, and as he did, he noticed something.

They weren't at an intersection.

They hadn't appeared to have moved – America certainly couldn't recall the taxi lurching forward, couldn't recall the lights changing. And yet, there was no intersection, just as there was no terrified-looking pedestrian being berated by the furious taxi driver. In fact, the street was empty, completely devoid of both cars and pedestrians and the taxi driver looked positively benign.

"Shit!" somebody hissed, and Alfred's head throbbed.

America looked at Japan. "Did you say something?"

Kiku looked uncomfortable, searching America's face. "I didn't say anything." He cautiously laid a hand on his arm. "Are you sure you're alright? Maybe it's _you _who needs the sleep…"

Normally, America loved sleep. He was all for early nights and contented slumbers, but right now it seemed… irritating, almost, a childlike instinct to protest going to bed.

Why was that?

"Maybe we can both sleep on the flight." Kiku murmured. As America stared at him, he added, with a note of apology in his voice "No offense, Alfred-san, but you look like you need it."

"Uh…" America raised his hand to the back of his head and winced as it twinged again. "Hey, when we reach Boston, do you think we could, like, visit a hospital or something?"

Japan's face softened. "Of course. Why? Is your head hurting again?"

"I think it's getting worse." Alfred grunted. He looked up at Japan for confirmation. "Uh… Head injuries aren't normally supposed to cause hallucinations, are they?" It was the only possible explanation he could think of for what had been happening to him ever since he had escaped from the ANP building.

Kiku's eyes widened. "You're… you're hallucinating? Why didn't you tell me this?"

"I thought it would pass!" Alfred argued.

Jack coughed slightly from the driver's seat. "Hey, if you guys want, I could drop you off at the nearest hospital, or something…"

Kiku looked back at Alfred uncertainly. "What do you think? Do you want to?"

Alfred shook his head. "No! We're on our way to catch a flight, remember?"

Kiku's teeth gritted. "But you're hurt! You're hallucinating, for God's sakes!"

"It's probably just lack of sleep, like you said." America insisted. "It'll probably pass on the flight, when I can sit down for once. Can't you go any faster?" he added to the taxi driver, who complied with an uneasy nod, pressing his foot to the pedal and veering off through the Washington DC streets.

America watched the buildings flash past in their dizzying array of steel and glass, and wondered just what was wrong with his mind.

To be continued...

* * *

Notes:

Talking, talking, talking, planning, ruminating, infodumps, organizing, talking some more, sloppy attempt at a cliffhanger. God, this chapter's _boring_. My sincere apologies. I did try to add a metaphorical 'ticking time bomb' with the flight plans, but a combination of Real Life flight times and distances evaluated by Google Maps made that impossible *sighs* Sometimes, I wish more people are willing to suspend disbelief.

I apologize for the late update, and for the slight sloppiness some of you savvy readers might have picked up throughout this chapter. I've just gotten back from a solid week of skiing and snowboarding, beginning at six o'clock in the morning every day, and my brain is just too tired to cope with anything other than longing for sleep.

… on the plus side, I did learn to snowboard :P That's always fun.

Sayonara until the next chapter, readers, for this is about as much the end as my big toe (see, there's sleep-deprivation induced craziness of phrase right there).

One more thing: a worry that's been bugging me a lot over the past few weeks is this: do you guys feel this story has a bit too many plot holes? I've been anxiously rereading this (probably not the best thing to begin doing while exhausted), but I'm completely at loss. Can I ask you readers, if you ever do come across something that just doesn't make sense or something that's puzzling you, could you let me know? What I'm particularly anxious about is more the little things; for example, Japan wearing black jeans in one chapter, blue the next, etc. Little things, but hey, you know that saying: "Look after the pennies, and the pounds will take care of themselves."

Yeah, I really need some sleep.

… in fact, just let me know how you find this fic in general, I'm getting slightly paranoid about plot technicalities :P I don't put that little note at the end of every chapter for nothing.

**Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated.** (said 'little note')

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the aforementioned works. **


	7. Watching, Waiting

**THE FAN INVESTIGATION**

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

**WATCHING, WAITING**

* * *

"Hmm," said Japan. "Interesting."

And then: "No! Really?"

America groaned and turned his head to glare at his companion. "What?"

Kiku looked mildly offended. "It's a book I'm reading, it's interesting."

Alfred let his head fall back against the seat with a sigh. "What's the book?"

Japan flipped the book to survey the cover. "The Song, by Ekaterina Chernenko-Braginskaya. It's about a Ukrainian doctor watching over a man on his deathbed, his psychopathic sister who adores him, a Lithuanian man who can talk to spirits, and the ghost of a Polish transsexual who was murdered by a neo-Nazi."

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Death, racism, incest, murder, and the occult. Sounds cheery."

The sarcasm made a slight whistling noise as it hurtled over Kiku's head, successfully ending his monologue. "It is, it's actually quite interesting."

America craned his neck, curiosity piqued in spite of himself. "Can I read the blurb?"

Kiku pulled a face, and held it up. "It's in Japanese, sorry. It's a translated version."

"Of course." America uttered a sigh and fidgeted in his seat.

They had screeched into the airport with minutes to spare, paid the taxi driver amidst a flurry of inquiries about Alfred's heath, dashed into the airport and, with much swearing in both English and Japanese and many frantic perusals of maps, had boarded the plane with minimal fuss. Alfred's heart had contracted when it had been his turn to step through the metal detector; he'd had to reassure himself. To the handlers, he was a criminal, and he was dead.

_Dead man walking, _he thought, and suppressed a nervous giggle. Somehow, he'd imagined it would be a lot cooler than this.

He wondered vaguely what AnimeCon would be like. He had been to several comic conventions before, but never an anime one – that remained firmly in Japan's department. How different would it be? America thought of all the stereotypes he had ever heard of the Japanese, glanced sidelong at his partner, realized that Hetalia was essentially all about stereotypes, and felt the sick feeling in his gut worsen. Granted, he hadn't really delved deep into the fandom yet; he cursed himself for being hypnotized by the fanart. No, he _was not _some sick perv who spent all his spare time ogling what was essentially homoerotic pornography, although, now that he thought about it, he actually sort of _was_. At any given time, ANPs could fully immerse themselves within the minds of their people – technically, they _were _their people, without their people they wouldn't exist – and he knew better than anybody that some people were very sick-minded.

Not that there was anything wrong with being gay, of course, he'd always had to laugh at some of the parades, even though several churches might blanch at the sight. But then again, religion had always had one or two serious flaws; he hadn't lived through all of England's lectures on King Henry the Random Number He Couldn't Remember, who had decided to set up an entirely new church just so he could divorce his wife and marry again…

His head throbbed, almost in protest at the ruminating, and Alfred screwed up his face in a grimace. He looked around for a flight attendant. "Could I get some water over here, please?"

The water was icy-cold against his lips and tasted vaguely of chlorine; he shuddered as he drank it. As he set the flimsy plastic cup down in the cupholder, his gaze fell on the passenger across the aisle – Davie Packard, businessman and CEO of a company involved with electronics. Sweat glistened on his pale face and his hands gripped the armrests hard enough Alfred almost expected the fabric to rip.

Air sickness.

"Hang in there, buddy," Alfred whispered, and turned away.

"… I'm bored." He announced after several seconds of silence.

Japan's expression was mostly obscured by his book, but Alfred heard his impatient sigh. "Sleep. Look out the window. Meditate. There are plenty of things to do."

_Meditation is a good idea, _America realized as Japan returned to his book. He could find out what had happened to the cartoon America – it had been bothering him ever since he had seen the security camera back in the hotel room. If the knowledge somehow didn't work with the Hetalia America, he could always extrapolate the information from Colonel Reed and his handlers.

He closed his eyes.

Maybe it was because he'd had considerably more practice at summoning the knowledge recently, but the normal blinding dizziness that usually battered at him seemed slightly softer. It rose gently to the back of his mind in a haze of whispers, making his skin crawl almost as if somebody had draped an icy-cold blanket around his shoulders.

He received a brief flash of the Earth, blue-green globe bobbing in the blackness of outer space (the realization that he was seeing space nearly made him gasp), before his vision hurtled at breakneck pace towards the continent of the Americas, hovered above the dusty brown desert, then almost seemed to zoom onto Washington DC.

_The knowledge has a homing device, _America thought, startled, as he mentally flashed past dozens of American pedestrians. _That's new. _

Slowly, somehow, he found him. The blackness of the backs of his eyelids seemed to flash pink, then orange, and suddenly he was standing in a room.

The room was small, roughly rectangular, and oak-panelled. America's eyes (not his real eyes, his… metaphysical eyes? Psychic eyes? Which one was more accurate?) only had a second to adjust to the bright light streaming in through the window before the door snapped back against the wall with a bang and made him jump.

Colonel Reed came striding into the room, shadowed closely by ANP Canada and ANP Mexico. America's heart gave a funny twist as he saw them, followed briefly by a jolt of panic.

Could they see him?

Apparently not – and how could they, technically he was seeing this all with his mind. America stepped back warily as the two ANPs and their entourages filled the room; Canada, Mexico, their handlers, and what America presumed was Mexico's translator: a swarthy, mean-looking man with constantly darting bottle-green eyes. Two security guards entered the room after them, silent as shadows, taking their positions on either side of the door.

Colonel Reed settled down at the desk, rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily. As he did so, America was struck by how careworn he seemed. Strands of greying hair clung to his temples, and his face was downcast and drawn. Surely he hadn't looked that tired the last time America had seen him?

"How is he?" Canada ventured, when Colonel Reed did not speak.

Colonel Reed dragged his fingers through his white hair. "I just can't understand it." His deep voice sounded strained. "There's absolutely nothing occurring within American politics right now that would warrant such a dramatic change…"

"¿Qué tan graves son los daños?" Mexico murmured to his translator, who raised an eyebrow.

"How… how much damage is done?" the translator asked, stumbling over the words, and Alfred realized belatedly that they must be talking about the cartoon America.

Colonel Reed raised his head. "He's in rehabilitation on Roosevelt Island now. His mind…" his fingers scraped restlessly against the wooden desktop; Alfred saw Canada wince at the noise, "his mind seems to have regressed back to World War II. Why, I don't know…"

Canada's attendant, a strawberry-blonde woman with a crew cut, coughed. "Is that why he was wearing the aviator's jacket? I thought I recognized the style…"

"The United States Air Force…" Canada hummed thoughtfully, and his attendant quietened. "But why? Is there any reason for it? Have the psychiatrists discovered anything?"

Colonel Reed tipped his head back, frowning at the ceiling in thought. "There is a slight possibility that it might be some form of regressive mental illness. But since he's an ANP, we just don't know enough about how ANPs minds actually work for that to be a definite cause…"

Mexico was looking slightly bewildered; his translator had kept up a steady stream of Mexican Spanish all throughout the Colonel's speech, but he still frowned. "¿Cómo la ves…?" he kept up a running commentary until his translator stopped him.

"Do you think maybe the Boston bombings, or the recent shootings might have been the cause?"

Colonel Reed frowned. "He's been through more pain than that, surely. After things like the wars, things like bombings and shootings wouldn't seem _that _traumatic."

"Hardly traumatic enough to inspire a whole new personality change." Canada agreed, and smirked when Colonel Reed raised an eyebrow at him.

_Canada, _America decided from his position by the door, _has a really dark sense of humour. _

"Hasta que tome la píldora se me quitó el dolor." Mexico put in.

Canada and Colonel Reed stared at him.

Mexico's translator coughed, shuffled awkwardly, and mumbled: "Until I took the pill, the pain did not go away."

Canada's attendant's eyes narrowed. "With all due respect to you and your sufferings, ANP Mexico, currently America is in a radically different political and economic situation to yours. I doubt what you have experienced is anything like what he has."

Canada screwed up his nose. "Well, historically…"

"Enough!" Colonel Reed thumped the table with his fist, almost like a judge calling a rowdy court to order, and the attendants jumped. Only the ANPs stayed unruffled, standing there, straight-backed and expressionless.

_No love, no hate, no loss, _America thought miserably as he leant back against the wall.

Canada spoke up, blue eyes hard. "You say ANP America is in rehabilitation now?" he coughed slightly. "Forgive me for this, but why bother summoning us? What has this got to do with us?"

Colonel Reed's teeth gritted. "In order to maintain the illusion that ANP America is still functioning normally, it will require your cooperation." He exhaled, and laughed bitterly. "God, China will have a field-day if this gets out…"

Canada's eyes narrowed slightly. "You can count on us, sir, but what exactly is required of us?"

Colonel Reed straightened, and looked ANP Canada directly in the eyes. "The next WORLD meeting isn't until October. At that time, if any ANP asks about ANP America's whereabouts, it is up to you to form a response. Say he's at a meeting, or a political campaign, anything."

Canada nodded slowly. "So, you want us to cover for him while he's still in rehabilitation." He looked at Mexico. "Mexico, are you getting all this?"

Apparently understanding, Mexico nodded slowly. "How…" he stumbled over the words; his translator looked surprised. "What does America now? What…" his face screwed up in a grimace; he broke off to gabble quickly away to his translator.

"What is America doing now?" came the translation. "What makes his personality so different from his original?"

Colonel Reed rubbed wearily at his temples. "His personality has definitely changed; he's now much more…" he snapped his fingers, searching for the approximate term, "brash. And loud, too. He's also very obnoxious, his IQ seems to have slipped down by several points, and his sensitivity when it comes to politics and discretion when dealing with other countries seems to have vanished."

Canada looked amused. "Are you sure his personality's changed at all? It sounds just like him whenever he skips lunch."

The translator translated, and Mexico chuckled. To his chagrin, Alfred noticed Colonel Reed's lips twitch in amusement. "Be that as it may, there are still several noticeable changes. He doesn't…" he frowned slightly before continuing "his knowledge of other countries seems to have changed too. He's convinced that you, ANP Canada, don't exist…" Canada's smile noticeably faded; he looked angry, "and he also claims that France continually attempts to molest people." Colonel Reed grimaced.

Canada's hand drifted to his pocket; he looked bemused. "I could call him and find out…"

Colonel Reed dismissed this with a wave of his hand. "I'm sure that claim is just a product of America's current… condition." Straightening, he added, a hint of embarrassment clouding his voice "That's all I really wanted to talk about with you today. Do I have your word that, until you receive word that America's condition has changed, you will help cover up for him?"

Canada nodded absently, hand still closed around his mobile phone – his handler was eyeing it with considerable distaste. "I will."

Mexico nodded. "Si." That, at least, everybody seemed to understand.

"Thank you, sir." Canada's attendant broke in. Alfred leapt out of the way as Mexico and his respective entourage crowded the doorway, seeing almost impatient to escape the small, cramped room.

Canada's attendant made to walk through the door in Mexico's wake, but stopped. "ANP Canada?"

Canada was standing at Colonel Reed's desk. "By the way, Colonel." He said conversationally, but his blue eyes held something hard and emotionless, and he did not blink. America saw a muscle involuntarily twitch in the Colonel's jaw. "I didn't want to ask with ANP Mexico in the room, but… that intruder that broke into ANP America's room?"

Colonel Reed frowned. "What intru… oh." His eyes widened slightly. "I remember now. What about him?"

Something like impatient amusement flicked in Canada's eyes. "Have you gotten to the bottom of the incident now?"

Colonel Reed ran a hand wearily through his hair, fingernails dragging the strands of white off his forehead. "Truthfully, ANP Canada, I had forgotten all about it. We had an…" his eyes narrowed, "an _incident _while driving back from the detainment building, and I'm afraid that distracted me."

Their language was ridiculously formal; Alfred almost expected Canada to bow as he responded. "I understand. I just find it strange that ANP America should undergo a radical personality change the day after somebody breaks into his house…"

Alfred's heart was pummelling his ribcage in hysteria; Colonel Reed looked thoughtful, and even grudgingly impressed. "That's a good point, ANP Canada. What do you think of it?"

The faintest trace of a frown passed over Canada's face. Standing by the door, Canada's attendant seemed to have momentarily turned to stone: only her eyes moved as she looked from the Colonel to the ANP and back again. "As you know, I was with him when he was being injected."

Colonel Reed shuddered slightly. "Yes, yes. And?"

Canada's eyes narrowed; backlit by the light from the window, he looked positively evil. "He knew who I was."

Colonel Reed's head snapped up; Canada's attendant let out a gasp. "_What_?"

"He said he himself was ANP America." Canada's tone was dull, the epitome of disinterest. But Alfred had been around the ANPs and their rules long enough to sense the flicker of interest lurking behind his expression.

"But that's impossible!" Colonel Reed lunged to his feet. Finding the room to be only about three foot wide, he set about pacing the length of it, glaring at the floor as though it had personally insulted his grandmother. "He was clearly southern, probably from Texas, he claimed he had amnesia, _and _he had blue hair…"

Alfred suppressed a nervous giggle and pulled in his stomach as Colonel Reed swept dangerously near. His heart was still beating hard.

"Maybe he was just confused?" Canada's attendant spoke up from the door, her stillness apparently broken. Then, as Canada and Colonel Reed turned to her, she added "From what you've told me, Colonel, the intruder probably would have had the time to go through all the files on ANP America's laptop and learn all about the existence of the ANPs. The head injury he sustained probably... _scrambled _his thoughts, enough to make him think he himself was ANP America…"

Both Alfred and Colonel Reed relaxed.

"That's a good idea." Colonel Reed turned back to Canada. "See? That's probably what happened. The intruder's dead now anyway…"

Canada looked thoughtful. "I'd still look into it, if I were you." The edge of steel in his voice served as a reminder – however influential Colonel Reed was, Canada had existed long before him, and knew more than he could ever imagine. "Ask the psychiatrists at Theodore Roosevelt Island to ask America…"

"Yes, but… his mind's regressed back to World War II, for God's sake!" Colonel Reed's voice was raised; clearly, he'd had enough of debating about the motives behind the break-in at America's house. "How could an intruder cause that?"

"All the more reason to look into it." Canada's voice was deathly calm in comparison to the attendant's. His eyes were burning blue flames; Alfred cringed at the sight of them. He looked murderous. "The safety of ANP America is your priority, Reed, or had you forgotten?"

Colonel Reed gritted his teeth; Canada's attendant put a hand on the ANP's arm. "ANP Canada, that's enough." She nodded courteously to Colonel Reed. "Thank you for your time, Colonel. ANP Canada, we have to go."

Alfred followed them out the door. The roar of Colonel Reed departing by way of a limousine distracted him; it was only when the black fumes from the exhaust faded in the cool air that America realized Canada was speaking, chattering away into his phone while his attendant stood and glared.

"T'as-tu eu d'la misère à trouver 'a place? Ch't'icitte depuis une demi-heure!" Canada sighed. "Oui, d'accord. Non, non, c'est le Québécois…"

His attendant coughed. "ANP Canada, we have to go."

Canada snapped his phone shut. "Right."

Just when America was beginning to wonder what he should do next, the prickling sensation started up again. The knowledge suddenly rose, flooding the back of his mind in a chorus of whispers, overwhelming him. His vision flickered, curling at the edges, his skin crawled, and…

"_That's enough for now,_" somebody murmured, and suddenly the vision faded and he was on the plane sitting next to Japan again.

Japan was staring at him. "What happened there? You looked a bit unfocused."

"I was meditating." Alfred stretched, grimacing at the pain of his stiff joints.

Kiku looked at him. "Meditating? Does that mean…" he stopped, checked carefully over each shoulder, then leant in closer. His words were barely audible. "Using the knowledge?"

Alfred nodded.

"What did you find?"

"Canada and Mexico have agreed to cover up if anybody finds out the cartoon America's in rehabilitation."

Japan looked startled. "Canada and Mexico? The ANPs?"

Alfred inhaled and nodded. "Yeah. They're the nearest countries, so…" he let the sentence trail off, hoping Kiku would get the point.

Japan nodded slowly, hair falling into his eyes. "That makes sense." He agreed. Then he frowned at him. "You look nervous. What's the matter?"

America exhaled and leant back. "Canada's suspicious."

Alarm flooded Japan's eyes. "About what?"

"About the 'intruder'." America mimed quotation marks in the air above his head. "He thinks it might be connected to how the cartoon America's…" he hesitated, "acting up."

Japan's eyes narrowed; he looked uneasy. "What will happen if he begins to investigate?"

America shrugged. "I have no idea. Alfred F. Jones, technically, has no records anywhere in the world except on Gmail and Tumblr, and Colonel Reed's shut those sites down…"

"Wait, wait." Japan held up a hand, his face white in shock. "Did you say your Tumblr account name is Alfred F. Jones?"

America nodded. "Yeah, why?"

Japan nervously bit a nail. "We have to stop using Alfred F. Jones as your pseudonym, then, if Colonel Reed's seen it…"

"You're right." America cursed, mentally kicking himself for not thinking of it sooner. "What name should I use instead?"

Japan looked slightly alarmed. "I don't know, it's your name."

"Huh…" He tried to think of a name, but nothing came to him, so America turned his head to gaze out the window at the endless expanse of blue sky. Clouds were scudding the horizon, and the bright sun made his eyes water.

"What about ANP Canada?" Japan prompted. Worry made his voice tremble. "If he begins investigating this…"

America spread his hands. "What will he investigate? Anything he uncovers about 'the intruder' will lead to a dead-end."

Japan frowned. "But that will just make him more suspicious!"

America started to panic. "You're right. Good thinking. Do you think, maybe, if Canada gets that far, do you think he'll start putting two and two together?"

"That you were the intruder?" Japan rubbed his temples. "I don't know. I just don't know. Who knows what conclusions he'll come to?"

"I'll keep an eye on him…" America's voice trailed off as he realized. "No! Damnit. For me, the knowledge only works for American citizens."

Japan's eyes narrowed. "Isn't Alaska technically part of the US? Alaska's near Canada, you could gain some insight from there…"

America frowned at him. "What? Dude, there is no ANP Alaska."

Japan sighed. "Forget it. Just… presumably, ANP Canada will keep in touch with Colonel Reed, right? You could get some information from him."

Alfred felt himself relax. "Good thinking." He grinned at him. "You're really smart, you know that?"

Japan's cheeks may have turned the faintest shade of pink, but all he did was open his book again and continue to read.

America settled back against the seat and watched the view from the window. There wasn't any point worrying about it now. If ANP daily life was anything to go by, Canada probably wouldn't have enough time to properly investigate the intruder with any sort of thoroughness for quite some time. Plus, there was no guarantee Canada would even remember to investigate. If he did, he would probably pass any information on to Colonel Reed, and the knowledge could reach _him_…

America groaned slightly. _Since when has my whole life began to be dependent upon 'What if' scenarios?_ he wondered grumpily.

After several seconds, finding nothing to do except more endless worrying, he sighed.

"Can't you sit still for five seconds? Didn't you bring anything to do?" Kiku inquired, looking up from his book. Frostiness edged his voice.

"Yeah well, I was a bit distracted by my head." America indicated his skull with a stiff-fingered jab.

Japan's face softened. "How is it now? Are the aspirin helping?" He frowned, rolling the words around on his tongue. "Is the aspirin… are the aspirins… is the aspirins helping… No, that doesn't sound right…"

America raised a hand. "I get it, I get it. And yeah, the aspirin is helping, but I just feel groggy now." It was true: his eyes were sagging low at regular intervals, and it was a struggle to keep them open for long periods of time. The aspirin they had requested from the flight attendants was doing its job of lessening the worst of the pain; Alfred was left with a skull that felt exceptionally tender and bloated, almost like a hard-boiled egg.

Japan looked concerned. "Maybe you should get some sleep." He was one to talk – the ANP had spent the better part of the flight in a deep slumber, occasionally sleep-talking in Japanese under his breath, before jolting awake with a small scream and startling the flight attendant passing by.

America shook his head. He didn't know why, but that strange reluctance to sleep was still strong; he didn't feel like doing anything remotely connected to slumber, if he was perfectly honest. _Maybe I'm turning into an insomniac, _he thought idly. He certainly couldn't think why. "No, I'm fine."

Japan eyed him with some degree of concern. "Alright, but if your head starts hurting again, let me know, okay?"

"Yessir, father sir," America intoned dully, trying his best to inject sarcasm into his words.

Japan looked slightly alarmed. "You don't have a father, Alfred-san. No ANPs have…"

America looked at him. "You're not very good with sarcasm, are you?"

Japan looked slightly annoyed. "I've been trying to get into satirical humour, but I just don't like it." He grimaced.

"That's a shame. You don't know what you're missing." America thought of some of the better-known satirical comedians that he liked, and realized with a jolt of surprise that they were nearly all English. He added "But you really have to talk to England about that, he, like, _owns _that kind of stuff."

Japan blinked. "Really? He doesn't seem like the type to do anything so..." he frowned, searching for the appropriate word, "… radical. Is that the word?"

America shrugged. "Sounds good enough for me. Clearly you weren't paying much attention during the eighties." America smiled slightly as he remembered. "The guy went completely berserk. Claimed he was an anarchist for three years straight. Blew up his Prime Minister's car too."

Japan's jaw dropped slightly; he looked distinctly unnerved, perhaps trying to reconcile America's words with the familiar image of the prim-and-proper English ANP, who had never so much as sworn in his life let alone blown up his Prime Minister's car. "Are you sure?"

America twisted in his seat to look at him. "Ever heard of the Sex Pistols?"

Japan frowned. "What's that? It sounds like something the Italy ANPs would come up with."

America snickered at Japan's analogy; now that he thought about, it did sound like exactly the sort of thing they would dream up. "They were an eighties British punk band. Make history when they went on British national television and used the word 'Fuck'. _Once_." He held up a finger. "Only once."

Japan looked slightly bemused. "That's not very much."

"It was a disgrace back then." America replied.

"Huh." Japan was silent for a few minutes, mulling it over.

Feeling the need to defend England's reputation as an unrefuted badass, America added "Plus, the guy was the British Empire! Tell me you know that!"

Japan's gaze darkened and America realized, too late, that England (British Empire, in all likelihood) and Japan (Empire of Japan?) must have had _history_. In the non-erotic sense – past wars and former allegiances were generally not suitable topics of conversation for most ANPs. Rehabilitation could only do so much, after all.

"Sorry, man." America said at length, feeling slightly awkward. "I… I didn't realize."

Unexpectedly, Japan chuckled.

"What?"

Japan grinned. "It's nothing, it's just… I can see where the USUK fans are coming from."

Which effectively shut America up for the rest of the flight.

**0110111001101111**

The automatic doors slid shut behind him, the outside air hitting America squarely in the face, and obscuring Japan's surprised expression behind a layer of dark glass. The doors creaked almost ponderously on its runners, as if waiting, before sliding open and admitting Kiku through.

"Where to now?" Kiku demanded almost as soon as he was let through. His black backpack was slung over one shoulder, a pale hand placed protectively over its sagging fabric as if fearing pickpockets. "You said before you wanted to go to a hospital, right?"

Alfred shook his head as they began walking, through the incoming crowd of pedestrians milling around the entrance to the airport. True, he had said that, but the pain in his head had lessened considerably since Washington DC, no doubt aided by the combined efforts of the aspirin and the few minutes of sleep he had managed to snatch on the flight. It was really amazing how quickly ANPs could recover. "No, no, I'm good." Now that he was thinking more clearly, he was adverse to any form of hospitalization; hospitals normally wanted records, and he would have a hell of a time explaining how and why there were no records of an Alfred F. Jones anywhere in the world, never-mind the US. "Weren't we going to get some more supplies? You know, like, clothes and stuff?"

Japan's face fell. "We would need another bag for that." He indicated the lone black bag with a twitch of his fingers. As his hand reached across, his sleeve fell back, and America caught a glimpse of something black – a bracelet, or maybe some sort of tattoo – stark against his wrist.

"Do you have a tattoo?" America asked, interested, craning his neck to get a better look.

Japan yanked his sleeves back over his hands and glared at him. "We were going to get some more supplies?"

America raised an eyebrow. "Yeah. Why won't you…?"

"It's nothing," Japan gritted out. "Do you know any shops around here?"

America placed his fingers to his temples, squinting so the airport dimmed and he was able to focus on the knowledge more acutely.

_dogrunlaughshoppeoplepedestriansgrowlstreetlightfo odcookingpetstorehamsterofficeblock…_

America opened an eye. "There's a grocery store nearby, we could probably get some food and stuff from there… it doesn't have to be lots, just, like, nuts or something…"

"What about the bags? We need more bags." Japan held up his own, dangling from his arm by the strap.

_26yearsoldfirsttimejurorcleanerjanitormaintenancem anlawyerbicycleppregnancyissuesa ffairsmortgagerentcatastrophemobilephonecompanybig eaterrunracescrosscountryworklawwork…_

"There's be a store nearby…" America held the concentration for a minute longer before letting the knowledge recede with his exhale. "We need to flag a taxi first. How much money do you have, again?"

"Umm…" Japan's hand crept to his pocket. "I think it's enough. I have more on the credit cards if we need it."

"That'll be…" Alfred stopped mid-sentence, gaze suddenly riveted to the opposite end of the airport parking lot. "Hey…" his eyes narrowed. "Who's that?"

Alfred only caught a glimpse; a flash of red-spiked blonde hair and dark leather before the figure, whoever it was, melted back into the crowd and was gone.

**0110111001101111**

Letting out a long-suppressed sigh, the figure sitting in front of the screen bends forward, removing its headset. "Get out of there." The figure whispers tensely, eyes scanning the rows of binary flickering across the screen. Ice splinters beneath its words. "Get out of there _now_."

The door was pushed back against the wall with a muffled thump, and a man stands on the threshold. "Has he gotten out yet?" his voice is whispery and velvet-soft – the figure feels the shiver as the words trailed up his skin as physically as fingertips.

The figure rubs his eyes, adjusts his glasses, and shakes his head. "No."

Velvet turns icy. "_Why not_?"

"He likes it." The figure's tone was weary. "Why, I don't know, he's always been…"

"Insane? Pretentious?" the man snorts, coat swirling around his ankles as he paced.

"Pretentiously insane, I suppose." The figure agrees, leaning forward. His eyes – shadow-lined and red-rimmed from tiredness – flicker impatiently. "I just hope he doesn't let his feelings get in the way of the job."

The man's voice climbs high in shock. "_Feelings? _What feelings? And for _who_?"

The blinking lights on either side of the headset, the only things clearly visible in the pitch darkness of the room, pulse steadily.

* * *

Notes:

Hahaha, I'm looking forward to revealing what America's dreams are about :) You guys are in for a treat. Granted, it won't be for a while yet, but still. Patience, grasshoppers.

Aha! **Question! **I'm leaving it up to you lovely readers: what should America's alternate pseudonym (name) be? Drop me a review or PM if you have any suggestions. There's a **poll in my profile **for the names I've been trying to decide upon (only surnames at this point, unfortunately).

I've actually been getting worried about this fic lately. I've been reading through the past chapters and to me, it seems a bit slow. Nothing happens! Maybe it's because I'm the one masterminding the whole thing, but still. Could drop me a review telling me what you think? Don't be afraid to tell me this fic is as slow as a cart-horse with a broken leg trying to tango through waist-high mud; knowing me, it'll probably be an incentive :P Also, do you feel there's a lot of information you have to get your heads around, or are the amount of plot twists and info dumps all right to manage? Let me know, please.

You can tell I'm a language enthusiast, can't you? XD Seven chapters in, and already we have Japanese, French, Mexican Spanish and Québec French. What do you reckon, should I aim to slip in some Russian or Chinese next? :P

Translation (and explanation) of the Quebec French. Translations have been provided within the chapter for the Mexican Spanish.

For anyone who speaks French, _avoir de la misère_ means to have a hard time. Instead of saying the article _la_, Canada said _'a_, because _la_ and _les_ become _'a _and _'es_ after a vowel. _Ch't' _means _je suis_ (I am) (t is added before a vowel). _Icitte_ means _ici_ (here). Many words ending in -i/-it become -_itte_ (_nuitte _= _nuit_ = night_, icitte = ici = _here).

So, essentially, by saying: "T'as-tu eu d'la misère à trouver 'a place? Ch't'icitte depuis une demi-heure !" , Canada is saying : "Did you have a hard time finding this place? I've been here for hours!" I'm not a native Quebecker, though, so feel free to correct me.

Spontaneous language lessons. Aren't I cool? :P

xxx

**Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the aforementioned works.**


End file.
